Dipper and Wendy's Doomsday Defense
by AllenbysEyes
Summary: Something goes terribly wrong in our timeline, and the world ends in July 1974. Blendin Blandin recruits the Mystery Team to set things right, encountering a tangle of radical terrorists and nosy FBI agents, crazed cultists and an even crazier President. Time travel fic in my usual continuity. Thanks to William Easley for the awesome cover art!
1. Chapter 1

**July 25th, 1974**

 **Arlington, VA**

It was just after midnight, the end of a typically long and hot summer day, when Captain Paul Winthrop received the phone call. He cursed under his breath; having spent a long, grueling day investigating two drug-related shootings, he wasn't in any mood for another pointless, needless crime. There didn't seem to be much point to anything anymore, not in 1974, when the country was decaying from the inside out.

"Captain Winthrop," he answered dutifully.

"Captain, this is Sergeant Beech," came a nasal voice on the other end. "There's an accident up in Rosslyn. Somebody plowed a car into the side of a building and we think you should take a look.

"That seems pretty routine," the Captain responded, struggling to mask his annoyance. "Why call Criminal Investigations?"

"I mean, the driver seems to be pretty well-connected. Plus there are some pretty queer circumstances around this wreck. Might be worth a look."

"Who ya got there, Henry Kissinger? Julie Christie?"

"Close. One of them works for the White House."

That was enough to pique the Captain's interest. He sighed, looked down at his paperwork, then uttered a profanity and jumped in his police car.

* * *

Nothing here struck Captain Winthrop as overly bizarre. A 1970 maroon Ford Maverick had plowed into the side of a brick building, smashing its front end to pieces, shivering the windshield and engine to fragments. Gasoline and motor oil and radiator fluid leaked everywhere. Inside the car there were two bodies, barely recognizable amidst the mess.

In the passenger's seat sat a neatly-dressed young man, wearing a blue sport coat and with long but well-groomed brown hair. His neck had been snapped like a carrot, his head dangled on his shoulders. Next to him was a tall, red-haired young woman in a denim jacket, her face and upper body smashed to a pulp. She still had a pulse when the first responders arrived, but was dead before an ambulance reached the scene. It was a gruesome sight, but nothing that Winthrop hadn't seen a million times before, and nothing that seemed to overly concern him.

"We checked the ID on the male," Sergeant Beech reported. "Name is Richard Mason Anderson, age 28 - for my money, looks about half that age, but what do I know? Ran the name and he works as a special assistant to Ken Clawson in the White House press office. Must be pretty well-connected for a kid to be working for the President at that age."

"Who's the broad?" Winthrop asked, eyeing the second victim.

"Ahh, we're still trying to figure that out," Beech admitted. "She had an obviously fake ID on her - a cheap cut-and-paste job, says she's 30 years old and named Etta Place."

"Like the girl in Butch Cassidy?"

"Exactly. These guys aren't even creative any more. Used to be they'd name themselves after some Uruguayan guerrilla leader or something like that."

"Yeah, I'm well-versed in counterculture cryptography," the Captain snapped.

"Probably a hippie or a dropout or something like that. Must be a weird one, though - no needle marks, no sign of dope or anything else in the car, not even booze. Plus she looks and smells like she was acquainted with a shower."

The Captain just nodded thoughtfully.

"It is a bit odd that she'd be hanging out with somebody like that," the Sergeant said.

"Even White House staffers like to get laid," Winthrop assured him.

"Maybe in Kennedy's day," the Sergeant replied. "But under Tricky Dick? Doesn't sound right."

"Call him that again and I'll break your head with a flashlight," Winthrop barked. He'd had one too many political arguments over the past two years, was sure to have more in the days ahead, and wasn't interested in another one just now.

"Well, whatever you call his boss, I dunno. Must have fallen in with a bad crowd, or else he was living a double life his pals didn't know about."

"So basically, you called me out here in the middle of the night to show me that government gofers like sex as much as working stiffs," Winthrop said. It was growing harder and harder to disguise his annoyance.

"Well, not exactly boss," the Sergeant said, starting to feel sheepish. "There were two other things that caught my eye here. I mean, look at the car. It had to have driven straight into the side of the building to hit it at this angle. But, I mean, straight across the street is another storefront. I don't see how they could have made that unless they were parked outside."

That did seem odd, Winthrop had to admit. But still not enough to justify his coming out here.

"Also, one of the patrolmen found this by the car," the Sergeant said, pulling out a business card. Winthrop puzzled over it, wondering what it could mean.

It was a plain white card, 4X6, with nothing on it but a strange double-cross symbol. It reminded him of a Cross of Lorraine, which he'd seen many times in France during the war. Except that it had a large capital G embossed between the two arms of crosses.

"What the hell is this?" he wondered out loud.

"Beats me," the Sergeant said. "Wondered if it was some kind of company or, you know, think tank, maybe some kind of code phrase for these radical types, but nothing we could find."

Winthrop turned the card over in his hand, stared for a moment, then crumpled it up.

"So are you suggesting, what? Someone mysteriously managed to turn a car at an impossible angle into the side of the wall, or maybe teleported it through the side of an office building...then, having achieved these amazing bits of weirdness, left a calling card with a weird symbol to taunt us. I mean, I might buy that if this was an actual murder. But come off it, Sergeant, it's a goddamned car wreck. Kid was probably drunk or driving too fast and smashed into a wall. End of story."

The Sergeant scratched his head skeptically. "But sir, what about...?"

"End of story," he repeated firmly. "Now make sure to get those bodies out of here and clean up this street before anyone else comes through here, or else traffic will be backed up all the way to the Potomac. And Sergeant? Next time you call me at midnight, make sure Charlie Manson's broken out of prison or something like that, huh? None of this patrolman's bullshit. "

The Captain walked away irritated, not even waiting until he was out of sight to light up a cigarette. He hadn't quite squared all the incongruities he'd noticed in his own mind, but at this point it didn't care. Everything is weird enough if you stare at it long enough, no matter how banal or commonplace; every minor event yields some anomaly, some detail you can't account for. The only thing that bothered him was the card, but any curiosity he had over that lost out to insomnia and indifference.

Perhaps Captain Winthrop couldn't be blamed for his lack of clairvoyance, since he knew nothing of the future and less about the space-time continuum. He didn't know that the two victims of the car accident were the only things standing between the United States of America and nuclear annihilation, anymore than the delayed arrival of a Congresswoman to the Capitol Building the following morning, or the disappearance of a young man affiliated a Millenniarian sect would have piqued his interest, let alone signaled the end of the world. Certainly he knew nothing of Dipper and Mabel Pines, Wendy Corduory or Charlie Huston, who even in the correct timeline were born a decade after a plaque- and stress-riddled heart killed the Captain in a Bethesda hospital.

And even if, somehow, he _had_ known all of those things, what could he have done about them?

 _Author's note: Welcome to the next big story in my ongoing arc. All reviews, reads and followers are greatly appreciated; this one will probably take awhile to write, but hopefully you'll find it worth your time. I am also trying to find a suitable cover image, suggestions are welcome._


	2. Chapter 2

**July 23rd, 2018**

 **Gravity Falls, OR**

The last thing Dipper Pines wanted to think about that Monday was another government conspiracy, let alone from forty years ago. He and his friends had already brought down Preston Northwest, and that effort had eaten up nearly half the summer. He wanted to get back to investigating and researching mysteries more in the line of local paranormal phenomena.

"Come on, Mabel! Aren't you the least bit curious about what happened outside town last night?" he insisted while stacking mugs on the shelf. "Three people claim they saw a weird creature devouring a live sheep. Maybe there's a correlation with that alien-wolf hybrid thing that Ford told us about. Certainly fits the MO."

"Dip, I'd love to help you track down some creepy-crawly thingy, but we've got to help Stan today," she reminded him. "We promised that we'd do a full week's work if he gave us time off last week."

Dipper groaned, glancing at a mug imprinted with an oversized question mark. He sighed, thinking that their Great Uncle _had_ been rather generous, by his standards, over the past month. Maybe doing a little useful work wasn't a bad thing.

It was just frustrating that he couldn't do what he wanted. He had started the summer depressed by the impending onset of college, only for a new investigation - albeit one seemingly far removed from those he'd studied in the past - to captivate him, to drag him out of his stupor and back into the mystery business. His mind raced with the thought of making up for lost time, wondering how many mysteries, how many weird phenomena and undocumented creatures he could manage to cram into the month remaining before he went off to West Coast Tech.

And, of course, there was Wendy. Who had just recently went from friend to tentative romantic partner over the course of the past month. Who, over a long and most pleasant weekend, had spent time mocking bad movies and making him food and snuggling in bed and cementing their relationship into something far cozier than just an anguished, overdue outburst of affection. Part of him loved the domesticity of the whole arrangement, the opportunity to love Wendy without having to battle a Shapeshifter or an evil triangle or Baldy McBalderson at the same time, but another part of him wanted to join his favorite Lumberjill in thrilling adventures.

And yet he was stuck here stacking coffee mugs and bobble heads.

"Don't worry, Bro," Mabel said. "Next week we'll only have to work a couple of days," she reminded him. "Plenty of time for chasing monsters and aliens and what-nots then!"

A young couple walked into the gift shop, still chattering about Stan and Soos' latest creation, the Turnipede. "I can't believe that a turnip could grow one hundred legs and come to life!" the husband said, awestruck.

"Or that Stan could kill and stuff it!" his wife marveled.

"Glad that you all loved the Turnipede!" Mabel said from behind the desk, beaming. "To make your experience even more memorable, be sure to buy the official Turnipede T-Shirt, available only at the Mystery Shack!"

It showed a drawing of a savage turnip with gnarled teeth, clawed hands and a million bug-like legs. A far cry from the limp vegetable with some pipe cleaners glued on.

The customers gasped. "That must be what it looked like when it was still alive, hon," the man whispered to his wife.

"Thank God they killed it," she muttered back.

"We'll take ten!" the husband beamed.

"At least one of you kids inherited my salesmanship," Grunkle Stan announced, walking into the gift shop. Then he noticed the couple and tipped his fez to them. "And thank _you_ folks for stopping by!"

"It was wonderful," the husband said, slipping the T-shirt over his head.

"And so are these shirts," the wife said, her head stuck in the hole.

"Hey, credit Mabel here," Stan said proudly. "She's the real genius here."

"Oh Grunkle Stan," Mabel blushed. Then she hit a few buttons on the register. "Fifteen dollars a shirt. That will be $135.00, please."

"One hundred fifty..." Stan did the math in his head, realized it didn't add up. "Uh, Mabel, I think you forgot something."

"Buy ten shirts and get one free," she announced. "Our special secret deal of the week!"

"But I never..." Stan started to protest.

"That's the Mabel difference," his niece said with a wink.

"Wow, that is one heck of a deal!" the husband enthused. The wife toppled over, still ensnared in her shirt. "At that price, might as well buy twenty more!"

Stan put his hands on his hips and smiled at Mabel. "Mabel, someday you are gonna be the real bread maker in the family."

"Oh Grunkle Stan, I think I'll stick with sweaters," she said, taking the husband's money.

While opening the register, she came across a hastily scrawled note in Stan's handwriting.

"Brendan Bland," she read out loud. "Huh. Something something nuclear blah, who is this weirdo and why is he here?"

"Yeah, I forgot to tell you kids," Stan said offhandedly, helping stuff the couple's haul of t-shirts into undersized plastic bags. "Some weirdo in a gray body suit showed up, gave me a cryptic message about something I couldn't understand, then vanished into a bright light. I figured you wouldn't want to be bothered."

"Grunkle Stan, that seems like something you should tell us about right away," Dipper said, walking over to the front desk.

"Don't lecture me, kid," Stan snapped. "There's so much weirdness going on in this place it didn't really register with me."

"You can say that again!" the male customer said, shaking Stan's hand and helping his wife, who had managed to poke her head out a shirt sleeve, to the car with their bounty.

Dipper and Mabel stared at the message, trying to decipher it.

"Brendan Bland?" Dipper said. "Who the heck is that...?"

Mabel shrugged. The two twins read the barely-legible note over carefully, then came to the same conclusion at once:

"Blendin Blandin!"

* * *

Even though Wendy Corduroy known her little dork for six years, she still felt the thrill and excitement of a fresh new relationship, something that their weekend together had only intensified. Every where she went, she hummed tunelessly to herself, danced around her apartment, feeling happier and more alive than she had in a long time. So alive that even the inevitable sight of a centipede in her pantry couldn't bring her down. She wondered, if she felt this way now, why she hadn't fallen for Dipper before. But then she told herself that's not how romance works.

She had been hoping to join her dad and brothers in a camping trip to Washington State later that week (promising Dipper that she'd bring her best camera and keep an eye out for Sasquatch while visiting). But then her dad accidentally smashed the roof during one of his weird fits, and they had to spend a few days fixing things up.

So she was helping Charlie Huston as best she could, giving him copies of all the family files on Rick Corduroy they'd uncovered.

"Here's all the stuff Dad got from our cousin out in Fargo," she said, hefting a huge sheaf of papers onto his desk. "My dad said he'd appreciate a copy of the article, and if you don't make Rick look like a total badass he'll seek revenge."

"I'll keep that in mind," Charlie said, handing the redhead a custody form.

"Anyway, I trust you, man, you're one of the smartest people I've ever met, and I'm sure you won't get the smallest detail wrong." She signed the form hastily.

"Thanks, Wendy," he said. "What's on tap for you guys?"

"I dunno, man," Wendy said, leaning on the desk. "Starting to feel a little bored. Old Man Stan's making Dipper and Mabel work all week, and Robbie and Tambry won't be in town until the weekend. Maybe I should go out into the woods and take some pictures. Feels like that kinda day, and I'm sure the animals miss me buggin them."

"At least it's cooled down a little," he said. "Seventy-ish isn't bad for this time of year."

"You said it," Wendy said. "Anyway, I'll get out of your hair." She looked at his freshly crew-cut hair. "What there is of it, anyway!"

Charlie laughed weakly and put the form into a desk drawer. "No problem, Wendy! Always a pleasure, and thanks. Tell Dipper and Mabel I said hi."

"You got it, dude," Wendy said, waving as she walked out of the Museum. She drove home and was starting to tinker with her camera when she got a phone call.

"Hey Dip, what's up?"

"Wendy, something really important's going on at the Shack," came the frantic voice at the other end. "Come down, quick! It could be a matter of life and death!"

"Got it," Wendy said, hanging up without further answer. She looked wistfully at her camera and sighed, falling back on her bed. She wasn't up for saving the world just now. Suddenly, being bored seemed like a good alternative.

* * *

"Of course I know Blendin Blandin," Grunkle Ford said as the kids joined him in the study. "We've encountered each other in sixteen different dimensions over the years. A huge klutz, not very good at his job, but for a long time after Weirdmageddon he was pretty much the only member of the Time Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squad left in the whole Multiverse."

"Well, we're doomed," Dipper deadpanned.

"I noticed a few small anomalies cropping up over the past few days, but couldn't place them," Ford said. "Things that the average person wouldn't notice. A flock of birds that normally flies overhead vanishing one day without explanation. Animals dying of radiation poison after drinking from a pond a few miles outside town. Most disturbingly of all, this."

He held opened an old history textbook book that he happened to own, which contained a brief passage on the destruction of Los Angeles and San Diego by nuclear weapons in August 1974. He had called a friend in both cities to confirm that they were, indeed, still standing; the change, so far, had only been in print, not reality.

"I've seen this development before," Ford said. "It's a subtle time shift. Someone from our time and place has either gone back in time themselves, or done something to change the past, and the effects are slowly bleeding into our reality. Movies always show things like that as instantaneous, but it happens gradually, over a few days or weeks. The first signs are extremely subtle, almost unnoticeable, then they come faster and more drastic and intense. Cities with vanish, whole populations of animals will disappear, people will die, the world will drastically change until it becomes something else entirely, stopping God knows where. Our current reality eventually becomes the reality that's recorded in this textbook, beyond hope of repair. And whatever that reality is, clearly it isn't good."

"Well, that is...troubling," Dipper said.

"What happened in 1974?" Mabel asked. Then she wracked her brain and frowned. "Oh geez, don't tell Grunkle Stan!"

"There were quite a few important events that year," Ford said authoritatively. "But yes, the Watergate scandal and Richard Nixon's resignation are probably the best-known. And certainly the one most likely to drive Stan into a fit."

"So, Nixon started a nuclear war to stay in office, maybe?" Dipper asked.

"I know there were officials in his government who worried that he might use the military to stay in power," Ford recalled. "James Schlesinger, the Defense Secretary, arranged for all military orders by the President to be routed through his office to prevent that from happening. Nobody knew what might happen as his Presidency died, or what he might do if Congress impeached him. So, it's possible."

"But Nixon resigned without triggering a nuclear war," Mabel reminded them. "I mean, I know _that_ much. So what gives?"

"Hard to say," Ford said. "Like I said, this sort of gradual time shift indicates that someone from our time period went back in time and changed the outcome of still events. If someone like Bill Cipher or another time demon had done it, we would never have existed in the first place. We wouldn't be having this discussion. But we'd have to find out before it overtakes our reality completely, and I'm not sure how unless we wait...and that's too risky."

"Or unless we can travel back in time to stop it!" Wendy announced from the doorway.

"Hey Wen!" Mabel cheered. "Wow, points for the dramatic entrance."

"You guys know a time traveler, right?" Wendy said, all business. "Any way we can contact him?"

"I mean," Dipper said sheepishly. "He kind of tipped us off about it, sort of, but he disappeared and left a note for us that Stan...well, he massacred it."

"Figures," Wendy said. "Dude can barely work a pen to save this life." She studied the note, then handed it back to Ford and sighed.

"So basically, we have an indeterminate number of days to stop an indeterminate threat from changing the past in indeterminate ways," Wendy said, crossing her arms. "That's promising."

Suddenly Charlie ran huffing and puffing through the door, bending over to catch his breath.

"Charlie!" Mabel enthused, running over to hug him. "You got my text!"

Charlie slowly raised himself to his feet, still leaning against the wall. Mabel squeezing him pushed any remaining oxygen out of his lungs and it took him a long moment to recover.

"Guys, I got Mabel's message and I did a little research," he said. "Wasn't sure that I believed it, or how you could verify it, but I came across something online that might give us a hint."

He scrolled up a YouTube video entitled "Nixon impeachment hearings - July 25th, 1974." The video showed a pompous Californian named Charles Wiggins declaiming the President's innocence and the need for further proof to impeach him; the assembled Mystery Team waited impatiently for the shoe to drop. Then, about three minutes into the video, there was the muffled sound of an explosion, a flash of light and several screams. Then the video dramatically cut out, leaving six-and-a-half minutes of static.

"Astonishing," Ford said, still unable to peel his eyes away from the screen. "Someone blew up the Capitol building and killed the House Judiciary Committee while they debated impeachment. That must be the point of divergence - or one of them, at least. I've rarely encountered a case of this where there's just one tiny thing..."

"And not just the House," Charlie interrupted. He scrolled up Hugh Scott's biography on Wikipedia and noted his lifespan: **November 11, 1900-July 25, 1974.**

"Now, Scott was the Senate Minority Leader at the time, as I'm sure Ford knows," Charlie said, slipping into his lecturer mode. "I wrote a paper on him back in school. He was one of the Republican Congressmen who convinced Nixon to resign after the last tapes came out in early August. And he lived until July 1994 - or _should_ have lived. Looks like in this new reality he wasn't so lucky."

"I'm guessing this is Nixon, huh?" Wendy said. Mabel, with a panicked look on her face, typed frantically into her own phone.

"I suppose he would be the obvious culprit," Ford agreed. "But not necessarily the right one. We'd need to figure out all the precise circumstances to be able to effect it. Repairing timelines is a very tricky process, and we can't act without having a precise knowledge of what changed and how to change it back."

"But Great Uncle Ford, you said it yourself!" Dipper choked out. "It could take forever until we get enough details to act! And until then, we won't know until..."

"Dipper..." Mabel said, her eyes pale as she stared at her phone. They huddled around and saw, with abject horror, a record of casualties in a nuclear attack on New York City that she'd found, somehow, in an obscure corner of the Internet:

 **"SHERMAN PHILBRICK PINES: 1950-1974**

 **"STANLEY PHILBRICK PINES: 1953-1974**

 **"STANFORD PHILBRICK PINES: 1953-1974"**

The twins couldn't even stand to finish reading down the list. At the sight of their relatives, one of them standing before them, their blood ran cold, as the magnitude of the situation fully sank in.

"How long until this becomes real?" Mabel whimpered, huddling close against Charlie who stared in uncomprehending panic. Even Wendy looked terrified, biting her lip and shaking, leaning against Dipper for support. Not that he was holding it together any better; he instinctively grasped his Grunkle's hand.

"I have no idea," Ford said in a quiet, trembling voice. He, too, wanted to cry and panic, but he also didn't want to scare the kids so much that they'd give up hope. If there was anyone who could fix something like this, it was Dipper and Mabel.

"But we have to work fast," he said, forcing the authoritative timbre back into his voice. "Unless we can get in touch with Blendin or one of his colleagues, we're grasping at straws. We need to start before everything changes beyond recognition. Before we..." And his voice dropped out again. "...We start disappearing."

Someone gasped, or maybe it was everyone. Then the room went deadly quiet, save for Mabel's quiet, strangled sobs.

"Is there a way we can do that?" Dipper asked, his voice a whisper. Ford stared into space, trying to think of a solution. To his frustration, nothing came to mind.

"I hope so," he answered.


	3. Chapter 3

"I don't rightly know if I can contact the Time Paradox Enforcement Squadron," Fiddleford McGucket admitted over the telephone. "The way those fellers travel across different dimensions and time frames, it's impossible to know what version, or when, you'll contact the agent in question. Like all things involving the Multiverse, it's complicated."

"I know it's complicated," Ford said, with his four young friends watching nervously. "But damn it Fiddleford, if we don't do something the world is going to vanish within a matter of days! We need some help and Blendin already tried contacting us."

"I'll gear up my machine and see if I can hold of him," Fiddleford said, placing the call on speaker. Ford heard a loud _boop-boop-boop_ on the other end.

"This is Blendin Blandin," the familiar, shaky-voice came out loud and clear. "Who are you? How did you get this frequency?"

"Blendin, can you hear me?" Ford asked.

"Ford? Stanford Pines?" Blendin asked, his voice crackling across time and space. "Thank goodness you got in touch with me!"

"Hi Blendin!" Mabel said cheerily.

"Oh, Dipper and Mabel are with you?" he asked. "Oh, happy day! This is great!"

"Maybe not so great," Ford said sternly. "I understand that you tried contacting the Twins last week."

"Yeah, and your brother gave me the brush-off," Blendin replied. "I've been trying to come back over the past few days, but..." His voice faded into static.

"Blendin, are you there?" Ford asked. "Blendin!"

"Sorry about that," came the reply after a long, anxious moment. "Anyway, I'm sure you have some idea of what's going on. There's been a time anomaly in your year 1974 that caused the end of the world."

"Blendin, do you have any idea of what caused it?" Ford asked. "Have you identified the point-of-divergence yet?"

"Yes, actually I have...I think I'd better explain in person. If you give me a few minutes, I'll try and materialize at your location. Are you at the Mystery Shack?"

"I'm not," Fiddleford said. "But I can be over there faster than a barefoot jack rabbit on a hot greasy griddle..."

"Oh great, the weird old man is there too," Blendin muttered. "Well, the more the merrier, I guess. Have to go. Out." And then the voice disappeared and the static faded.

"Well, that went better than I expected it to," Ford admitted, heaving a huge sigh of relief. At least now we have a chance of stopping whatever is going on."

"I hope so," Dipper said. "But our track record with this guy is...not so great."

"At least he's not bald any more," Mabel said.

"Like that makes a difference," Dipper muttered.

"A-ha!" Ford and the kids turned and saw Stan in the door, looking angry and impatient.

"I tell myself, Stan, you're a good guy, you need to give the kids some time off," he explained. "Because they'll work on

"Stanley, this isn't the time to..." Ford began.

"Whatever mystery you kids are looking into can wait," Stan barked. "Dipper, Mabel get downstairs pronto! We just had a busload of customers come into the gift shop. Wendy, uh...sorry, I forget your name...Chucky?"

"Charlie," Charlie mumbled.

"Chaz, sorry," Stan said. "Well, you two don't work for me, so you can hang out with my brother if you really want. Heaven knows why you would, but..."

"Dude, listen to your brother!" Wendy interjected.

"Grunkle Stan, something really important is going on," Dipper pleaded. "The end of the world..."

"Always the end of the world with this guy," Stan grunted.

"Stanley, please!" Ford shouted. "This is Gravity Falls! You know as well as anyone here that when we talk about the end of the world, we aren't using hyperbole. Something's going to happen over the next few days and unless we can stop it, we're all going to be doomed."

Stan's face, still skeptical but no longer angry. "All right, maybe there is something to what you're saying. But, you know, I do have a business to run, and I can't always wait around until the end of the world-"

Then Stan flickered briefly, like a picture on a TV losing its reception, and his voice became an indecipherable garble. Then he vanished into nothing, leaving five terrified witnesses behind.

" **GRUNKLE STAN**!" Mabel shouted, running around and waving her arms, as if she could un-will what happened through sheer energy. "Please, don't disappear! Come back!"

"It's happening," Dipper muttered, backing away from the doorway. Ford just stared, his jaw trembling, fighting back tears. Wendy and Charlie were too shocked to react.

"I hope Blendin arrives soon," Ford said, rushing over to comfort his niece and nephew. "We're already running out of time."

* * *

After about five minutes of anxious, listless waiting, Blendin finally materialized in the Shack. As usual, he caught fire upon appearing in the present and had to pat himself down before springing to action.

"Thank God you're here," Ford said, rushing forward to shake his old acquaintance's hand. "Things have already become critical. My brother..." And his voice trailed off, unable to complete his sentence.

"Oh geez, this is even worse than I thought," Blendin muttered. "Usually this sort of process takes four to seven days to occur, but it's already accelerating."

"How long do we have?" Dipper asked.

"I don't know for sure, but it might be less than a day," Blendin admitted. "If people are already disappearing..."

"Why hasn't Ford disappeared?" Mabel demanded, still struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

"The way the timeline updates itself is totally random," Ford said. "Stan and I...we're related, but not directly descended from each other. And we were both alive whenever this event happened. Therefore, we wouldn't necessarily disappear from the timeline at the same time."

"Well, you're not the only brother Stan had," Dipper reminded him, gulping audibly.

"Blendin, what can we do to fix this?" Ford demanded. "It can't be too late."

"In theory, it's never too late," Blendin said. "But there are only three other agents out there, and I have a lot of ground to cover..."

"Blendin!" Dipper shouted angrily. "Something is wrong with the timeline. People we love are dying! Our whole world is about to vanish into thin air! No one wants to hear about your problems, this is your job! Fix it before we all disappear!"

Everyone was taken aback, looking at Dipper and each other. "Sorry, Blendin," he said.

"No, you're right," the time traveler said, bowing his head. "Something has gone horribly wrong, but here's the problem - we don't know exactly **what**. It might take longer to explain than we have time, so..." He pulled out his tape measure. "Let's go somewhere safe."

"Should we wait for McGucket?" Mabel asked.

"No time," Ford agreed. "If people are already vanishing..." And he left that dread thought hanging in mid-air.

After a moment's hesitation, everyone in the room linked hands and Blendin pulled the tape measure forward to 20713. They left behind a Shack empty except for angry, confused customers who decided this was the perfect time to loot the gift shop.

* * *

They were transported to the Enforcement Squad headquarters. It was a solid chamber with no visible walls, ceilings or floors, no windows or doors or indication that anything existed outside it. Everything glowed a blinding white.

Blendin led his five guests through a corridor, as several other agents in gray or black jumpsuits walked past carrying papers and electronic equipment. They ended up in his office, where Blendin had a small computer monitor which he began tinkering with it.

"The date of the divergence is July 24th, 1974," he began, watching video slowly unravel. "The first major event that we could pinpoint is this car crash in Arlington, Virginia just before midnight." And gruesome pictures of the accident appeared on screen.

"These two crashed their car into a wall," Blendin narrated, feeling queasy at the sight of the carnage. "The man is Richard Mason Anderson, a 28 year old man who worked for the White House Communications Office under Richard Nixon. During the Watergate scandal he worked as a liaison between the White House and different citizens' groups who were supporting the President."

Video footage of Anderson shaking hands with the President and another man flashed on the screen. "Uh oh, looks like I'm not your only twin!" Mabel joshed him.

She was right. Anderson didn't look _exactly_ like Dipper - he was a bit taller, his hair was neater, he didn't have Dipper's stubbly facial hair and his nose wasn't as prominent. But it was a close enough match, inexact yet uncanny, as if someone had cast an actor to play Dipper in a movie version of his life.

"By that point in time they were small in number, but they existed and they were loud and angry and devoted," he said, the monitor cutting to picture of Anderson introducing Nixon to a short, gray-haired Jewish man in the Oval Office.

"That's Baruch Korff," Charlie muttered in amazement. "The President's Rabbi!"

"How do you know about _him_?" Ford asked. Even **he** had to wrack his brain to recall that strange, weird little man who'd rallied millions of deluded followers to the President's defense.

"Never underestimate Charlie's wealth of useless knowledge," Mabel responded, clutching her beau's arm.

"And there were even weirder ones than him," Blendin said. There was footage, evidently covert, of him meeting with a well-dressed Asian man near the Lincoln Memorial...then handing a check to a group of hardhat types. "All manner of fanatics and frauds and prophets who saw an opportunity to advance themselves. Including a man who insisted that he was God, even though he could never convince the IRS that he was anything but a fraud."

And the screen showed a tall, well-build man with steely blue eyes and a forbidding white crew cut, draped in a black cassock, giving a speech to crowd of fanatics, who responded by yowling and dropping to one knee and bowing down in worship before the Prophet before them. Then Blendin showed his followers on the Capitol steps with huge, body-sized placards, harassing congressmen as they hurried past.

"This man in particular," Blendin continued. "He headed a sect of religious zealots who preached his own version of Christianity, only with himself as the Messiah. His name was Charles Ephraim Gleeful."

"Wait...say that name again?" Dipper said.

"I vaguely remember this," Ford said. "They were a small sect that called themselves the Church of Revelation, or something like that. Never had more than a few thousand members, but they always made a show of supporting the President and holding these huge prayer sessions and public rallies for him. As I recall, their leader was indicted and was shot by one of his followers before he went to jail. Somehow, I never thought to connect them to the Gleefuls here."

Mabel just stared in shock and disgust, before asking the question on everyone's mind:

"Wait...does this mean _**Gideon**_ is behind this?"

"That's what we can't figure out," Blendin admitted. "Whoever carried this action out covered their tracks really, really well. Charles, I think, was his grandfather and Bud Gleeful would have been alive at the time."

And indeed, as Blendin reviewed this, there was footage of another speech, with Charles flanked by a smiling blonde wife in a simple black-and-white blouse and a small, bored-looking boy in a blue suit with shaggy red-brown hair.

"So he's definitely a suspect," Blendin said. "But we can't say for sure."

"But why would Gideon want to mess up the timeline like this?" Dipper asked. "Is he still _that_ angry over Mabel dumping him?"

"Destroying the world isn't going to make me fall for you," Mabel said, sticking out her tongue. "Charlie, I hope you're taking notes!"

"Let's not assume anything," Ford said. "Even in the Multiverse, most justice systems practice innocence until proven guilty. Blendin, is there any chance this is some kind of ripple effect from Weirdmageddon? I observed a number of inter-dimensional anomalies spreading through space-time in the months after we destroyed Bill Cipher."

Blendin shook his head. "No, this was a targeted attack," he said. "They had to impact these specific people for everything to go wrong. I'm not sure how just yet, but that makes it extremely unlikely that it was random."

"But it doesn't make sense!" Dipper insisted. "Gideon hasn't been our enemy since Weirdmageddon - so far as I know, he's tried his best to be a normal kid...or at least, not an evil one. Maybe this is some kind of long-form revenge, but..."

"This is all fascinating, dudes," Wendy said. "But seems to me that you're only telling half the story. Who is the woman?"

"Oh, right," Blendin sputtered, tinkering with the monitor some more. Wendy rolled her eyes, disgusted that casual sexism still existed a billion years in the future.

After a moment, another video roll came up, showing a red-haired young woman in a hippie's peasant blouse. She didn't look as much like Wendy as Richard Anderson looked like Dipper - her face was much rounder and stockier, she wasn't nearly as thin or well-built as Wendy, but she was still close enough to cause an eerie shiver of recognition.

"This woman is named Charlotte Amanda Hurt," Blendin said. "Aged 23 in 1974. She was a college dropout who became involved in a radical leftist cell that called themselves the People's Liberation Vanguard. The press called them the Haymarket Five, since they started out in Chicago."

The screen scrolled up mugshots of five young men and women, all possessing shaggy hair and filthy, wornout clothes and the haunted, humorless looks of fanatics.

"They were an offshoot of the Weather Underground, but much less successful. They talked and dreamed of assassinating government officials and blowing up buildings, but they never actually carried any of their plans out. They were in DC during the last days of the Nixon Administration, but nobody quite knows what they were up to. They were terrorists, I guess, more in a theoretical sense than in action."

"Except Chandler Monahan," Ford said grimly. Everyone looked at him in surprise.

"Yeah, I recognize that fellow with the big bandito mustache," Ford elaborated, his voice taking on a distinctly bitter tone. "He attended a semester at Backupsmore before transferring to, I forget, either Columbia or MIT. I can't remember. Sharp as a tack, but one of those arrogant jerks who was too busy spouting Marxist jargon to actually attend classes or learn anything. Then one day in June '73, he set off a bomb at one of our research labs, and killed a graduate student named Lionel Brown. Chandler must have thought that poor 23 year old kid who never harmed a fly in his life was a pawn of the System who deserved to be blown to pieces."

Ford sighed heavily, then pushed his glasses against his nose and resumed his usual, officious tone.

"Anyway, he was never caught, went underground for a few years, and became a teacher many years later after it was too late to prosecute him. As one does." The bitterness came back on those last three words.

"Right, I'm sorry for that gap in my research," Blendin said, wiping sweat off his forehead. "I meant they didn't carry out any actions as a group."

"But it does prove that they were capable of killing people," Dipper said, putting two-and-two together.

"Yeah," Blendin agreed.

"But, I mean, what would she have to do with a guy who worked for the White House?" Wendy asked. "Wouldn't they be on, like, the opposite sides of the political spectrum? Can't imagine a hippie and a Republican hanging out."

"You would be surprised," Ford said, smiling. "Politics makes strange bedfellows. Or perhaps the other way around."

"Ohh, gross!" Mabel grimaced in disgust. "Grunkle Ford, that's something I'd expect from Stan."

"Wait...maybe I'm not following this, Blando," Charlie said, scratching his head "So, these two died in a car accident, right? And somehow that set in motion the apocalypse. All very well and good. But, I mean, presumably they weren't in a car accident in our timeline. So what happened?"

"First of all, it's Blendin!" the time traveler snapped. "And that's what I'm trying to figure out! The car wasn't supposed to crash - it wasn't even supposed to be in Arlington that night! Richard Anderson lived in Georgetown, and in our timeline he had dinner with this Charlotte Hurt and nothing happened. He went to the White House the next day and she went off to rejoin her friends."

"Why can't you just travel back to when the accident happened?" Mabel asked. "Can't you just stop them from crashing?"

Blendin sighed in frustration, as if he'd been asked that question a million times.

"I...don't...know...what...happened." He said through gritted teeth. And he wouldn't offer any more explanation.

"So, what do you need us for?" Dipper asked, crossing his arms. "I mean, I suppose I'm flattered that you want us to help you, but..."

"There's a very good reason for that!" Blendin said, as his monitor froze and then went to a blue screen. "Oh geez, that was a new computer! My time boss is going to kill me!"

"What was your reason for seeking out Dipper, Mabel and...their friends?" Ford saw Wendy and Charlie glower at him, then shrugged in apology. "Sorry, I'm terrible with names."

"'Sallright, you've only known me for six years, dude," Wendy muttered sarcastically.

"Since I'll have to investigate the details of what went wrong, I need to somehow keep the timeline going in its proper direction," he said. "Now, the only way to do that before we figure out what the Time Anomaly **is** is to send someone back in time to act out the roles of the missing people."

"Wait..." Dipper said. "You want us to go back to the Seventies and impersonate these people...and somehow that will keep the Apocalypse from happening?"

"Yes!" Blendin said, with more enthusiasm than Dipper felt the situation warranted. "Man, I'm so glad I don't have to explain that to you."

"But, how will **that** work?" Wendy asked. "Won't people recognize us as different?"

"Not if we send you back as them," Blendin said. "Kind of difficult to explain..." He tapped his head, trying to summarize it.

"Basically, you will appear in the past as yourself, to yourself. But there will be a reality shield that will make you appear like the person you're filling in for to everyone else. It's an illusion that we've managed to develop by manipulating the fabric of reality - you'll be able to go back in time without warping it, and without losing your own identity either."

"Are you allowed to do that?" Wendy pressed. "Seems like manipulating the fabric of reality would be something you'd wanna prevent."

"In instances like this, yes it is allowed," Blendin said. "It will be the only way to avoid a paradox."

No one seemed quite sure that they followed all of this, but they were too confused and desperate to argue.

"So...I think I'm guessing who you want to play these particular parts," Wendy said resignedly. Dipper was scratching his arm, then looked at Wendy and uttered: "Umm..."

"Would you? Would you please?" Blendin asked. "It would be so amazing! You guys are such a good match for them, and I know I can count on you to set things right."

"Sure, man," Wendy shrugged. "Better that than disappearing into thin air. If we're gonna go down, might as well go down fighting." She looked at Dipper, who sighed.

"Sure," he said skeptically. "Why not?" The two bumped fists.

"But what about us?" Mabel said. "If you think we're going to wait around here to see if you can fix the world...well, the Mystery Twins don't work that way!" She rushed over and grabbed her brother's arm. "Oh, and Charlie too!" She reached over for him, but Charlie stepped out of her reach and nodded awkwardly.

"Hmm...Well, there is a possibility," Blendin concluded. "I'll have to do a little more research, I'd have to find anyone else affected by this timeline that you two could join them. Can you give me a few hours?"

"Depends," Mabel asked. "Do you have any food here?"

"Mabel," Dipper growled.

Blendin snapped his fingers and a robot appeared. It produced a tray from its body bearing several roast beef sandwiches. Mabel grabbed one and nommed it up.

"I love the future," she said with a smile.

"I'll pass for now," Dipper said, waving off the Bot. "So, when do we start?"

"I'll need a few hours, like I said, to arrange everything," Blendin told him. "You'll be safe from any effects of the altered timeline here, until then. Need to formally clear this with my supervisors, but they've already indicated they're okay so I don't expect that to be a problem. Plus I need to find identities for these two." He gestured at Charlie. "You're going too, right?"

Mabel looked at him expectantly. Charlie sighed. "I mean, if nothing else I can probably keep them from doing something inaccurate..."

"Eeee!" Mabel squeed, crushing her boyfriend with one of her trademark bear hugs. "Now you've **officially** joined the Mystery Team! Anyone can solve a mystery or unravel a conspiracy, but it takes one of us to help save the world. One of Us! One of Us!"

And Mabel led a brief chant that Dipper, Wendy and even Ford joined in with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"It is an honor," Charlie said, looking in Mabel's eyes. "I just hope I won't let you down."

"Remember what we said about putting yourself down?" Mabel scolded gently. "Don't do it and you'll come out a champion!"

"Besides, we could use another brain on the team," Wendy said. "Of course, I expect me and Mabes will be doing all the heavy lifting."

"As usual!" Mabel chirped. And the two girls high-fived.

"Now, I have to warn you, this is an extremely dangerous mission," Blendin interrupted. "I will do my best to protect you - I'll give each of you a signalling device so that you can contact me for help if you're in imminent danger. But I cannot guarantee that you won't be harmed or killed or trapped in the new timeline."

"Pfft," Mabel insisted. "Don't underestimate us, Blendin! We've stared down Bill Cipher and beaten up bad baldies! We've defeated ghosts and ghouls and zombies and even dinosaurs! What could a few hippies do to us?"

"Bombs can do a whole lot," Ford murmured. But he swallowed his reservations, having learned from experience that these kids can do just about anything.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sorry about the wait, guys," Blendin squeaked, rolling in a new computer. "Had to trade my old monitor in for something that actually works. Took awhile but I think I'll get out of it without serious punishment."

"That's okay, it's only been two hours," Dipper said.

"Two hours sitting in a glowing white void," Wendy added.

"It's more boring than the boringest dentist office in the Universe!" Mabel complained.

"Anyway," Blendin said, ignoring their complaints, "I came with a few identities for Mabel and...whatever your name is." Charlie scowled, but didn't say anything. "Had to search to see if there was anyone else directly effected by the time anomaly. I think these two will be the easiest to fit in with our plans."

Blendin's monitor showed a young, well-dressed brunette woman giving a speech.

"Mabel, I think you'll like this one," Blendin said. "Her name is Ariel Margaret Schuyler. She is a 33 year old Congresswoman from upstate New York who served on the House Judiciary Committee during impeachment. For some reason, she didn't make it to the Capitol building on time in our alternate timeline, which delayed the proceedings long enough for the bomb to go off. So, we're thinking that she had something to do with foiling whatever went on that day..."

"Oh my God! Schuyler! Like Eliza and Angelica Schuyler!?" Mabel squealed. She didn't know much about American history, but she did know _Hamilton_. "Do I get to sing on the floor of the House? Wouldn't that be _amazing_?"

"Don't get too excited, Mabel," Charlie said to her. "You'll have to actually, like, debate the reasons Nixon should be impeached and have some familiarity with the Constitution and..."

"I got this," Mabel assured him. "You want a revolution? I want a revelation!" she sang, snapping her fingers. "Besides," she added, smiling and pointing at her boyfriend, "pretty sure I'm the only one here who's an actual, official Congresswoman!"

This was new on Charlie. "Huh?"

"It's true," Dipper agreed. "Quentin Trembley's final official act as President, so far as we know, was to make Mabel Congresswoman."

"I'm running on a platform of legalizing everything!" Mabel keened. "Just wait another few years 'till I'm old enough to run. Oh no, I won't have to wait, will I!" She snapped her fingers. "Congresswoman Mabel, bringing her amazingness to the 1970s!"

"Mabel, I hate to break it to you, but we can't do anything to drastically change the historical record," Blendin said. "Even if it's for the good. Your goal is to fix the past back to the way it should be...not the way you'd like it to be."

"Hmmph," Mabel grumped. There went her pig-in-every-house platform.

"Besides Mabel," Charlie said, "just so you know, Schuyler was a Republican."

"That's okay," Mabel answered. "I'm here to do a job, not to wear stupid labels."

"Did she at least vote for impeachment?" Dipper asked. "I mean, I know we have to do what we have to do, but I kinda wanna avoid my sister being on the wrong side of history."

"She did," Charlie assured him. "Six Republicans on the committee did, and she's one of them. Of course, that doesn't mean you won't have to put up with..."

"Mabel says, you're fired, Mr. President!" she shouted. "Oh wow, I've never imagined having this much power!"

"Maybe you should take a chill pill, Mabel," Charlie said. "Just remember, _Ariel Schuyler_ has that much power. You're just a temporary understudy/"

"Oh, you're no fun," Mabel said, shoving him. "Boo!"

" _Anyway..._ " Blendin interrupted, tapping his foot. "You, Charlie or whatever, that leaves you. So let's take a look at your character."

And the screen scrolled up a young, well-dressed, intense-looking young man with spectacles and a crew cut...and a sandwich board placcard bearing the face of Peter Rodino.

"This is Roger Sheffield, also known as the Apostle Simon. You are a member of Charles Gleeful's Church."

"What?" Charlie acted like he didn't understand.

"Oh, you're a major player in the Church of Revelations," Blendin assured him with what struck Charlie as thinly-disguised glee. "One of Charles Gleeful's earliest recruits and right-hand men. A former law clerk who found secular life unfulfilling and no answers in the regular church. Good thing that the Messiah Gleeful came along and took you under his wing."

Charlie looked around incredulously, first at Mabel, who was still humming and dancing around, then at Dipper and Wendy, who seemed to be stifling laughter.

"Okay, let me get this straight," Charlie whined. "Dipper works for the President. Mabel is a Congresswoman."

"And a Schuyler!" she reminded him.

"Fine, and a Schuyler. And Wendy here is some kinda radical, which isn't a good thing but...And you made me a brainwashed cultist?"

"Pretty much," Blendin shrugged. Charlie thought he saw a smirk.

"This is because I called you Blando, isn't it?" he complained.

"I assure you, time travel is no laughing matter," Blendin said, with his hands on his hips. "This was the only fit because he disappeared the day before the bombing. Either he was involved, or...he knew too much about what was going to happen."

Charlie's mouth hung up. Was Blendin really going to try and kill him over a minor, petty slight?

"This is great," he groaned, sitting down and burying his head in his hands. "This is just **great**. I'm gonna be dumped on a landfill somewhere and you guys are gonna save the world or something."

"I won't let that happen," Blendin promised. "Remember, I will keep all of you safe to the best of my ability."

That last phrase struck Charlie as a lawyer's response, but he didn't feel like pressing the issue.

"Cheer up, dude," Wendy said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Somebody's gotta do the dirty work. I mean, being a terrorist is no picnic, either...especially these kind of sanctimonious douchebags."

"Come on, man, think of it as a challenge," Dipper added. "You'd be, like, perfectly cast as a White House assistant or a Congressman. You'd probably know more about Nixon than the people who worked there. But a cult...well, think of it as...expanding your horizons."

Charlie shot him a death glare, but didn't answer.

"Plus, you'll still be a Congresswoman's boyfriend!" Mabel reminded him, shaking him playfully. "And besides, I'll need somebody to give me the ins and outs of this whole impeachment biz... even if he is a cultist."

She kissed him on the cheek, then spun around and danced off in another direction. "I'm looking for a mind at work, work!" she chirped.

* * *

"I'm really sorry I can't go with you kids," Ford said later, reclining on a small desk as a robot gave him some lemon-lime seltzer water. "But I'm pretty sure they won't allow me to visit 1974. I mean, I was _alive_ then, and that would be a time paradox!"

"I guess you get the easy part," Dipper grumbled. "My God, I don't know the first thing about Watergate beyond whatever Stan's whined to us about over the past few months. And I know even less about Richard Nixon or, you know, working for the White House."

"Dipper, it sounds like your role is peripheral enough that you won't need a detailed knowledge of every little thing that goes on," Ford assured him. He took a drink and gave a satisfied grunt. "For synthesized soda water, this is excellent!"

"As for Nixon...well, some people will remember him for his diplomatic achievements and for passing civil rights and environmental legislation. And he did many worthy things alongside the criminal behavior. But that Nixon was long gone by the time you're going to be in the White House, swallowed in hatred and denial and spite. I'm not sure there's anything that can truly prepare you for an unstable, paranoid lunatic in the White House."

"Except living in 2018," Dipper said with a smile, and the two shared a hearty laugh.

"Granted!" Ford said. "Some things never change, do they?" He handed his now-empty glass back to the robot, who recycled it into its machine.

He sighed and laid back, closing his eyes. "I'm sure Charlie would love to be in your place, but...all the major Nixon players are going to be gone. So there's not going to be any tourist appeal to this, just the utter confusion and sordidness of a dying administration. There won't be any Haldeman or Ehrlichman or Chuck Colson or any of those weirdos, only the second-stringers and butt-kissers and confused bureaucrats trying to keep their heads above water. Or, I guess, Henry Kissinger, but I don't expect you'll see much of him. If there's anything you do well, it's thriving under that kind of pressure. Charlie... I don't know him that well, but I'm not sure that I'd trust him in this precise situation."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ford," Dipper said. He sighed. "Man, I can't believe Wendy...jeez, we just spent a month proving her ancestor wasn't a terrorist, and now she has to be one..."

"True, and it's going to be just as tough for her as this will be for you. But Wendy has something that Chandler Monahan obviously didn't have: a moral compass. Even if she gets in a hairy spot, I'm sure she'd rather fight or run than murder someone or blow them. It's not like these goons are that good at it any way. Something must have gone really, really wrong with our timeline if they managed to succeed."

"Well, we'll see," Dipper said. "I wish we knew more...still feel like we're going into this blind, you know?"

"Blendin said that whoever caused this time anomaly used some kind of weapon or device to manually alter the past. If it were just a random bit of time glop from Weirdmageddon, which was my first thought, it would be easy to pinpoint and fix. But this is going to be tough to deal with. If you can create a weapon that will alter time, you can probably cover your involvement."

"So, we have to trust Blendin with our lives," Dipper admitted. "Not sure how I feel about that...I mean, I think his heart is in the right place, but..."

"I don't think we have much choice," Ford reminded him. "It's not like there's a more competent Time Removal Agent readily available."

Dipper looked down at his Grunkle and sighed. "I hope we can get Stan back," he said.

"If we fix this, we will," Ford said, clutching his nephew's wrist. "Don't worry about it. If anyone would have faith in you kids, it would be Stan. And I do, too."

Dipper nodded, then reached down and gave his startled Grunkle a hug. Then he left the room, and Ford laid back and fell asleep. He felt bad that he was left doing the easy job for a change, but he was right - he could trust in his niece and nephew. They could do anything. And he would just be in the way.

* * *

In an adjacent room, Charlie was doing his best to give Mabel and Wendy a primer on the early 1970s, on Watergate, on what exactly they might be doing in 1974. He wasn't sure how much of it was sinking in, though.

"Wait, so you're saying that the President ordered some dudes to break into a hotel to steal some stuff from the Democrats?" Wendy said, scratching her.

"Nobody knows for sure who ordered the actual break-in," Charlie said. "It's a matter of conjecture, but it was probably someone involved in his campaign."

"But then why would Nixon get in trouble for it if he didn't do it?" Mabel asked. "Isn't that guilt by association?"

"Because he hired the people who did it, they were working for him, he knew roughly what they were doing and because he spent the better part of a year trying to cover up their crime and block prosecutors and investigators and Congress from finding out the truth," Charlie lectured.

"It all seems so petty," Mabel said. "I mean, the political scandals we know about involve treason and rigging votes and corruption."

"Yeah man, this is small potatoes," Wendy insisted. "What's the big deal with all this cover-up biz?"

"Nixon did much worse than Watergate," Charlie interjected. "This is just what what he and his buddies got caught doing. And if you don't think corruption and obstructing justice are a big deal, well..."

"But I thought you said he _didn't_ do it..." Mabel said again.

Charlie sighed, putting his hand on his head. He felt he wasn't getting through to his audience, but he didn't know how to make it easier to understand. This is why I'll never be a teacher, he thought to himself.

"Right, should we start at the beginning again? Let's wind it back to 1968. Once upon a time, there was a woman named Anna Chennault..."

* * *

After another hour or so of this, Blendin ushered the Mystery Team into the lobby. He handed them each a small round object with a green button.

"This is your warning signal," he said. He pressed the button on one and it flashed bright green. The kids saw a light flashing on Blendin's belt. "If you are in imminent danger of being killed, you will press this button and I will materialize to save you. Now, I emphasize _imminent_ danger. Do not press it if you're in a spot that makes you uncomfortable, or cause some kind of cultural misunderstanding, or, you know, someone takes a swing at you. Save it for when your life is at immediate, instant peril.

"Secondly, and I know I've already stressed this, but change as little of the timeline as possible. You're not going to go back in time and find a cure for cancer or outlaw nuclear weapons or, I dunno, elect Robert Redford president. Even the tiniest thing - the wrong word said here, stepping the wrong place there - can have catastrophic consequences. We know you can't help making some small changes, so don't worry too much if you, like, drop a cell phone - actually, don't bring your cell phones, they won't work anyway - drop something anachronistic or step on a butterfly, because we can fix that later. But don't do anything that is going to be difficult, if not impossible to fix.

"Thirdly," Blendin said, clapping his hands as another robot with what looked like a wardrobe attached wheeled up. "We were discussing when you should be sent back, because the plans and so forth are already well underway. We didn't want to send you back too early, because you co-inhabiting a timeline for too long with the people you're impersonating can cause major problems. So we're going to wind things back about 24 hours before the anomaly, to July 24th. Go about your expected schedules - Dipper, you will be working at the White House. Wendy, you will need to join your cellmates or comrades or, you know, whatever you call yourselves in Georgetown. Mabel, you will be at the Capitol preparing for impeachment. Charlie, you will be the Church of Revelations."

"I have a question," Charlie said, raising his hand. "How are we going to be in touch with each other?"

"That's a great question," Blendin said. "I will give you all the addresses and phone numbers of where you'll most easily be found." He pulled out what looked like an iPad and wrote them down, then printed out small business card-size slips of paper with phone numbers and addresses on them. "Remember: no cell phones, no GPS, no internet. It will be harder to get in touch than if it were 2018."

"Boo!" Mabel said, before Dipper and Wendy shushed her.

"And finally," Blendin said, at last recognizing the robot beside him, "you'll need to dress the part."

He clapped again, and the robot's wardrobe opened up. Dipper had a nice Brooks Brothers work suit, Mabel had a coal-gray blouse with a dark blue blazer and pearls, Wendy had a denim jacket and ragged khaki pants, and Charlie had a dress shirt with the dorkiest bow tie ever. They ducked into separate rooms to dress, then emerged in their new outfit.

"Looking good, Mabes!" Wendy congratulated Mabel. "I'd say being a Congresswoman suits you."

"Thanks, Wen!" she beamed. "You aren't looking so bad, either. Or should I say Charlotte! Mwap!"

"Yeah, Wen, you look positively..." Dipper stumbled over his words, as usual. He gulped before completing his thought: "...Sexy."

Wendy chuckled and tousled his hair. "Thanks, G-Man! You look about ready to stop a nuclear war or make a trade deal, yourself."

"I hate this bow tie already," Charlie said, fidgeting with his neck. "I'm hoping that I won't have to wear this thing all the time."

"It's a cult, you'll probably have to sleep in that outfit," Dipper joked. It didn't reassure Charlie.

"You'll have to make do with whatever outfits your person has at their residence when you arrive," Blendin announced. "This will just be your initial outfit so you can fit in without too much difficult. Remember that you will be able to recognize each other as each other, but everyone else will see the people you're impersonating."

"Sorry, I must have fallen asleep," Ford announced groggily, walking into the room. "Well, I see you're all in costume already."

"Costume? I think I've been waiting my whole life for this moment!" Mabel announced.

"All right, we're about ready to go," Blendin said, pushing another button on his machine. "There's no absolutely set timeline for resolving this, but I'll work as quickly as possible so that you don't get trapped in the alternate timeline."

"Good luck, kids," Ford said, bending down and hugging his niece and nephew. "Just remember, the fate of the whole world, and possibly the Universe rests in your hands. No more pressure than usual."

"We won't let you down," Dipper assured him.

"Of course not!" Mabel said. "Whether now or forty years in the past, we're the Mystery Twins!"

"Mystery **Team** ," Wendy reminded her.

"Oh, sorry."

"All right, everyone who's coming gather around me." Blendin pulled out his tape measure and pulled it back to 1974.

"Good luck, everybody," Dipper said with a deep breath. "Let's try and get in touch as soon as possible."

"Otherwise, what's the point of going back together?" Mabel agreed. Per usual for Mabel, she seemed genuinely excited, whereas everyone else was filled with dread.

Charlie and Wendy exchanged a silent nod of affirmation. Then they linked arms with Blendin, and with a flash they all disappeared, leaving Ford alone in the lobby with a robot.

 _Author's note: Will take a break for a few days - have another writing project that needs completed by Saturday. Thanks and see you all this weekend!_


	5. Chapter 5

**July 24th, 1974**

 **Georgetown, MD**

 **5:30 am**

The first thing Dipper noticed, when he woke up, was how small his apartment was. Perhaps he'd expected a civil servant to own something swankier, or at least large enough to move his feet in. But it was a single room studio apartment, barely enough room for a bed and a dresser with a lamp and a small TV. At least the room was relatively clean, without a speck of dust or scrap of paper anywhere.

The second thing he noticed was the decor. The depressing, oppressive decor. The walls had various political posters and magazine clip-outs taped or tacked to the walls - the sign of someone whose entire life revolved around politics and policy, who struggled to make time for anything fun or enjoyable, anything human. The bookshelf creaked under William F. Buckley and M. Stanton Evans books on the bankruptcy of liberalism and conservative ascendancy, along with doorstop novels by Herman Wouk and Alan Drury, unreadable junk better displayed than read. There was a large, autographed poster of John Wayne on the far wall, but Dipper noticed that the inscription mentioned something about a campaign rally so it wasn't out of place.

The third thing, and somehow only that, was that Wendy was laying in bed beside him. And she seemed equally disoriented, half-dressed and struggling to comprehend where they were and what had happened.

Then, as punctuation, "Dipper's" shrill, angry alarm went off, and Dipper punched it until it shut down.

"Nineteen-seventy-four looks pretty shit so far," Wendy murmured through a yawn. "Guess I was expecting Blendin would have dropped us off the way we were when she left." She looked around and spotted some jeans on the floor.

"Guess we're supposed to act like this is a normal day for these people," Dipper said. "Looks like a normal day would be pretty miserable."

Wendy slowly kicked her jeans on as Dipper got out of bed and stretched. "This still doesn't make any sense though, dude," Wendy said. "What would a White House staffer like your guy be doing with a hippie-dippy terrorist? Doesn't make sense."

"Maybe the sex was good?" Dipper wondered, moving towards the window blinds.

"Dude, at least wait until I'm fully clothed!" Wendy yelled, throwing a pillow at him across the apartment.

"Fair enough," Dipper chuckled. He reached into his suit jacket, draped over the dresser drawer, and found the card with the phone numbers and other information Blendin had given them. He felt around to ensure that his emergency contact device was there, too.

"Should we call Mabel or Charlie first?" Dipper asked. "Wonder who would be easier?"

"Well, Mabel is in Congress and Charlie's in a cult," Wendy said. "Toss-up, I'm guessing?"

"Also...it doesn't look like we have a phone in here."

They looked around. "Dammit, you're right," Wendy said. "Don't tell me we're gonna have to look for a payphone."

They weren't, as there was a loud knock on the door. Dipper went over and answered it, throwing on his jacket as he went, forgetting to bucket up his shirt. He opened the door to see a kindly middle-aged lady with graying brown hair.

"Mr. Anderson," she said in a shrill but pleasant voice, "I know you're a big shot and you need people to talk with you, but can you at least ask them to call at reasonable hours? Especially this broad on the phone right now, she sounds like she's been taking coffee and happy pills all morning."

That must be Mabel, Dipper thought, shooting Wendy a knowing glance.

"I'm...sorry," Dipper murmured, realizing he didn't realize the lady's name.

"No problem," she said. "You and your lady friend can come down and I'll make you something to eat before you go." She walked down the hallway and Dipper decided to follow her, finding a small phone in the middle of the hall.

"Some of us need to use the phone too, Mr. White House," an angry older man shouted as he hurried down the hall. "Collude and cover up somewhere else, why don't ya? Might I suggest Sing Sing?"

Dipper ignored him and picked up the telephone. "Hello?"

"Hi, hi!" a familiar voice trilled on the other end. "This is Congresswoman Mabel giving you your early morning, Welcome to the Past wake-up call!"

"Mabel, you'd better not introduce yourself as 'Congresswoman Mabel' to everyone you meet," Dipper lectured. "Remember that you're..."

"Yeah, Ariel Schuyler," she interrupted. "Got it, Dip. I know you and you know me!"

"Where are you?"

"Can you believe it? I'm calling you from a car phone! I have a pretty sweet limousine that comes with my office, and a friendly old chauffeur named Todd. Sounds like I'm meeting with my staff early this morning to discuss something important. Maybe it's time to draft that pig-in-every-home bill!"

"Mabel, no pig in every home!" Dipper said, a little louder than he meant; two other boarders looked at him quizzically.

"Sorry, a girl can dream," his sister answered.

"Have you been in touch with Charlie yet?"

"I tried calling him but I only got an angry lady who wouldn't say anything," Mabel said. "Anyway, if you need to call me, I'll give you my office phone number..." A pause and she read it off: "555-243-7741. Sounds like I have a busy day ahead of me though, so there's probably an assistant you'll have to talk to."

"Well, thanks," Dipper said. "We should try finding a way to stay in touch. Remember, we only have 24 hours to stop this from happening...whatever it is."

"Of course," Mabel responded. "Makes me wish I had my iPhone - don't look at me like that, Todd, you wouldn't get it. Have you heard from Wendy?"

"Yeah, she's here with me," Dipper said, though Wendy hadn't yet emerged from the apartment.

"Ohh..." Mabel said in an accusatory tone. "You guys picked the lucky assignment, I see!" She made loud smooching noises into the phone.

"Whatever," Dipper groaned. "Talk to you later!"

"Yeah, let's try and call around lunchtime - whenever that is." And Mabel hung up.

"Mabel, that's..." Too late. He stood staring for a minute, then pulled out his car and dialed Charlie's number.

After seven rings, he finally got a response. "Who is this?" A harsh voice with a heavy Southern accent.

"Umm, this is...Richard Anderson," Dipper said. "You know, from the White House."

"Oh, yes!" Suddenly the voice became light and happy. "What can I help you with on this glorious day? I don't believe Reverend Gleeful is in Washington today, but..."

"Umm...actually I am trying to reach..." He tried to remember Charlie's new identity. "Umm, Simon?"

"One moment," the voice said, before putting Dipper on hold. After a few minutes, the woman came back on the line. "I'm sorry, but the Apostle Simon is taking part in the Daily Calisthenic routine with our action group this morning. He will not be available for a few hours."

Calisthenics? Charlie was doomed, Dipper thought.

"Umm, that's all right. Just have him get in touch with me at my office when he's available," Dipper said.

"Of course," the woman said. "And I can reach y'all at 555-216-7432, extension 649?"

"Yes, that sounds right," Dipper bluffed.

"All right, thanks for calling! I'll be sure to pass along your message. Have a Gleeful day!"

 _Have a Gleeful day._ The words made Dipper shudder as he clamped down the receiver. He saw Wendy had exited the hallway, now wearing a denim jacket over her shirt.

"That outfit...erm, suits you," he said.

"Charming as always, huh?" Wendy said, slugging him on the shoulder, then pecking him on the forehead. "Come on, we have a busy day ahead of us," she said, grabbing his arm. "Let's grab a bite before we save the world."

* * *

Dipper arrived at the White House around 7:00. He'd had to wolf down his food as quickly as possible, exchanging as few words with Wendy as they could. They communicated in hurried, cryptic phrases before their landlady - Miss Kimball, her name eventually came out - and the one or two other borders who were awake that early. Then they parted ways, Dipper to catch a train into Washington, Wendy to meet her friends down in Arlington.

"Try not to blow anything up while I'm gone," Dipper said, giving her a big hug.

"Try not to start a war or whatever," Wendy replied as they parted.

The train journey into DC was exhausting, a crowded, claustrophobic line filled with anxious bureaucrats and businessmen in suits, gabby younger passengers and a few bums panhandling for change. And cigarette smoke everywhere. And then Dipper still had to walk a few blocks to reach the White House.

If Dipper should have felt awe upon arriving at the President's residence, he was already too exhausted to do so. Which he figured was a good look - Richard Anderson, after all, had been there a million times and surely the novelty had worn off, at least a little bit - but still seemed frustrating. And he wasn't happy to see a large crowd of about 100 demonstrators, toting signs that read things like "NIXON MUST GO," "IMPEACH THE PRESIDENT" and "DELETE THE _!"

He tried to brush past them, only to run into a hefty, harried cop ready to smack someone with his billy club.

"Back it, puke," the policeman shouted over the chants from the crowd.

"But, erm, I work here!" Dipper reached inside his jacket, hoping to find his ID.

"That's the oldest excuse in the book," the cop said, lunging at him. "Throw on a suit and suddenly-" He was distracted as a long-haired young man bolted past the cordon and grabbed onto the White House gate.

"Tell Secret Service we might have a runner!" the cop radioed. Two other officers grabbed the man and pulled him down. He shouted a profanity at the police, who, to Dipper's shock and disgust, proceeded to beat and kick him into a bloody pulp before his eyes. The rest of the crowd backed off, angry but reluctant to provoke further violence.

"Back up you goddamned Reds! Back up!" the cops shouted, and there was a roar of insults in response. Someone hocked a loogie, and Dipper watched as the spit missed the police, landing on an iron bar at the fence and slowly, grossly congealing there.

"Rick!" someone shouted. It took Dipper a moment to recognize that the voice was calling to him, and he saw another young man with rusty red hair waving at him. Dipper broke away from the cop and brushed through the crowd, before meeting up with his rescuer.

"Hey man, what are you doing? Remember they're wanting us to use the Secret Service entrance," the young man said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dipper said. "It's been kind of a hectic week."

"Kind of a hectic year," the man said, preternaturally cheerful. Dipper couldn't help noticing the bizarre, unreal smile plastered on his face.

"Come on Rick, time waits for no man, least of all us," he said, throwing an arm around Dipper's shoulder. And the two went in through a gate where two uniformed White House police quickly glanced at their badges and budged them in.

"They're getting bolder every day," the man said as they entered the White House portico. "Goddamned Congress, they're opening debate on impeachment later today. Timmons isn't sure that we have more than a dozen votes in our camp. Can't even trust members of our own goddamned party, especially those bleeding hearts..."

Dipper barely noticed as they moved hurriedly through the crowded offices, slowly rousing to life with staffers and aides carrying paperwork, fielding phone calls, a thousand people ensconced in their own tasks. A beehive, Dipper thought, then cursed himself for not thinking of a less-cliched analogy.

Finally, Dipper's companion entered a small office crammed with files, memos and campaign memorabilia, with a picture of himself shaking hands with Dwight Eisenhower displayed proudly on his desk.

"Well?" he said, pulling up a chair.

"Well, what?" Dipper asked. His friend shrugged. Dipper caught a glance of his name tag and saw it read: CHARLES H. KEEFER, SPECIAL ASSISTANT TO MR. CLAWSON.

"Charles..." he said hesitantly, praying that he didn't have a nickname. "I'm sorry, you have anything special going on today?"

"Oh my God, yes," he said, leaning back in his chair and yawning. "Too many damn things. President's meeting with Secretaries Schlesinger and Dent early on, hope of discussing new trade deals with West Germany and the Benelux countries. God help me I've been in this office for four years and I still don't know a damn thing about trade, but they want me to write about it. Meetings with Ken, meetings with Ron and Ben Stein, meetings with General Haig, all kinds of message coordination that's important but dull as hell. Anyway, we're just going through the motions until SCOTUS makes a decision on the tapes this evening. Dunno if I can bear to watch the actual impeachment hearings."

Dipper nodded along, a bit lost amidst the blur of names and jargon, wishing he'd spent more time studying.

"And you, I bet you've got all kinds of friends trekking through your office today," he said, his grin reappearing. "Maybe Rabbi Korff? Maybe Reverend Moon or Don Kendall or that Gleeful character? You've got one heck of a job, Rick, and I'm jealous. You're like a therapist without a license."

Dipper laughed feebly and backed off. "Well, maybe after I leave this office, that can be my new career."

"Think about it," Keefer said, pointing a finger at Rick. "See you around, Dr. Funtimes."

Dipper's back stiffened, recognizing the nickname - his nickname. What the hell was happening here? Maybe Fate is real.

* * *

Dipper wandered around the hall, eventually finding his small office - really just a glorified cubicle. But it had a door and so Dipper assumed that his person was a man of status. He looked around and saw a rather spartan office, aside from pictures of himself and the President, a picture of Richard Anderson with what he assumed were his parents, a certificate from Young Americans for Freedom displayed proudly on his mantle...

Someone knocked. And Dipper looked up and saw a pert, striking young woman with a blonde bouffant staring at him.

"Mr. Anderson," she said, "you had three messages before you got here."

"Already?" he asked, looking around his office. "Day hasn't even begun yet."

"It's gonna be one of those days," the woman said, winking. "Can I get you anything while you look these over?" And she pushed a small stack of papers towards him.

"Uhh...maybe some coffee," he said.

"Sure thing," she said and exited. Dipper twiddled his thumbs for a moment, listening to the bustle and voices and phone calls outside his office, looking out his window down on the White House lawn, then turning his attention to the small stack of papers. Written in neat handwriting, the first one read "Mel Laird - something about a Committee for Fairness Event?" Second one: "Ron Ziegler - need opinion on press conference after court ruling tonight. Please be in meeting with Ron, Ken and Charles this afternoon."

What exactly can I hope to do here? he wondered, absently scanning the messages, trying to rack his brain to see if he knew these names from somewhere, if they had any significance to him beyond historical trivia. If I'm going to be pushing paper and in meetings all day, how on Earth am I going to stop a bomb from going off? He wondered if Wendy and Mabel and (God help him) Charlie were in any better shape.

Then he read the third message - and gasped.

"Charles Gleeful - Please call at 555-174-6830 once you reach the office. This cannot wait."

Numbly, he reached over to his telephone and prepared to spin the rotary dial. Then it rang and he yelled in surprise, shaking his head in embarrassment as an assistant stopped at the doorway to watch.

"Hello, Richard Anderson," he said into the phone.

"Hi Rick, this is Ken," a voice came on the other line. "I assume you heard about the meeting with Ron and Charles later?"

"Yeah, I just got the message."

"Good." The caller sighed into the phone. "This is going to be one of those days...Between you, me and my secretary, I dunno how much longer we're gonna be able to stand this shit."

"You and me both," he said, feigning familiarity. "It's very...overwhelming."

"You're telling me. How's your mom?"

Dipper bristled at this curve ball, not sure how to respond. "She's, uh, fine."

"That's great. She out of the hospital yet?"

"Uh, she will be soon," Dipper said, wishing he had Grunkle Stan's ability to BS. "Doctors want to keep her a few more days to be safe, you know."

"Yeah, and what a rotten time for this to happen," Ken sympathized. "I'll be in touch, Rick. Let me know if you need anything."

"Oh, I'm gonna be dealing with this Gleeful crap today," he said as the blonde woman placed a cup of coffee on his desk. "You know how that is."

There was a pause on the other end. "...Christ," Ken said finally. "How you can stand to be around those loonies is completely beyond me. Course, these days the White House might as well be a funny farm. See you later." And he hung up before Dipper could answer.

He took a sip of his coffee - dark, scalding black - then stared dumbly at the phone for a long minute. He took a deep breath, then slowly dialed Charles Gleeful's number.

"Hello," a deep, growling Southern voice came on the other end.

"Hi, is this Reverend Gleeful?" Dipper said, intimidated just being on the line with this man. "This is Richard Anderson from the, uh, White House?"

"Yes, I was expecting your call," Gleeful responded. "I understand you tried to contact my Apostle Simon earlier today."

Now Dipper sensed a trap. "Yeah, I wanted to speak with him about..."

"I thought I was clear that you would deal directly with me, or if not through me than my secretary Hilda," Gleeful rasped. "My Apostles are not to be contacted unless I instruct them to contact you. Is that clear?"

"I will keep that in mind," Dipper stammered into the phone. Who does this guy think he is? he wondered angrily. Then he remember - oh yeah, he runs a cult.

"Unfortunately I am indisposed and will be out of the country for the next few days," Gleeful said. "I have received a message that I am needed in South America due to a crisis in my flock there. I hope and pray that you and the President will be taken care of over the next few days. I sincerely wish that I could be there to support and guide you, for a time of dire tribulation is soon upon all of us."

"I will pass your message along to the President," Dipper said. "Thank you."

"God bless you, son," Gleeful said, before hanging up. And Dipper felt a pang of fear, as if he'd just spoken to the Devil himself.


	6. Chapter 6

**July 25th, 1974**

 **Arlington, VA**

 **8:45 AM**

It took Wendy two-and-a-half hours to reach the gang's hideout. Partly because she had no idea how to navigate the capital and its environs without use of a GPS or at least a map. Partly because she had no real idea where to find or contact her supposed comrades. Couldn't Blendin have transported her on a day where Charlotte was at their headquarters instead of Richard's apartment? It just made things needlessly complicated.

Eventually she decided to dial the number Blendin had given her from a payphone and ask for help. The voice who answered grudgingly arranged for a meeting outside a McDonald's in northern Arlington, where former Commerce Secretary Maurice Stans was known to surreptitiously scarf down a delicious Big Mac in between price fixing, laundering illicit campaign donations and trial dates. And even then she needed to take a bus and ask a few skeezy-looking folks the direction, finding their reluctance to answer troubling.

It was the dingiest, most disgusting fast food place Wendy had ever seen, the walls caked in lewd graffiti and hobo vomit. She didn't feel safe or comfortable there, not helped by the sight of an obvious drug deal going down in the parking lot. Then she spotted a tall, gaunt man in Army fatigues with shaggy hair and a long mustache, which clicked from Wendy's vague memory of their briefing.

"Charlotte, what the hell?" he said by way of introduction. "Was that some kinda gag, your callin' me saying you couldn't remember where we were? You in stony land or is balling that G-Man doing a number on your brains?"

"Hey, watch your mouth!" Wendy snapped. "You guys were the one who asked me to do it. You think I want to sleep with somebody like that? Get real!" She made as disgusting a face as she could, even though her actual experience of "sleeping" with Dipper consisted of two nights and one furtive handjob.

"Hey, you knew when you joined us there would be unpleasant risks," the man snapped. "Things are about to get serious and I can't have you putting your pride or whatever before the cause. Now, get in." And he took her into an ancient, run-down Pontiac that reeked of cigarette smoke and patchouli oil. Wendy practically gagged as she strapped herself in, wishing she had her hatchet with her.

"We're meeting with those Gleeful guys this afternoon," he said as he drove angrily down the street, barely slowing at intersections and swerving through traffic, incurring honks and profanities as he went. "Dunno why Bill thinks we need their help, but I guess we need everything we can get. The underground is rotting from the inside out, just like everything else these days. Even some weird Christian creeps can do their part, I guess. I mean, the Berrigan brothers were..."

"Maybe you wanna be a little discreet," Wendy lectured. "You don't want any cops tailing us, do you?"

"Man, fuck them," he snapped. He reached below his seat and pulled out a huge Colt Python revolver. "Too late to let any pigs stop us from doing what we're doing."

"Oh my God, put that away!" Wendy gasped. She hated guns and just the sight of one made her queasy. "Think it would be easier to drive slower than to try shooting your way out of a police cordon," she said as calmly.

"Man, Becky must be rubbing off on you," the man laughed, shaking his head. "Issuing orders like you fucking run the world. One wild woman is a bad scene, but both of you..."

Wendy couldn't tolerate it any more. She knew she was an anachronism, but she wasn't going to take this from a past radical anymore than some douchebag in the present. So she reached over and grabbed her comrade by the throat.

"Cool it, creep," she snapped. "You're already on my bad side this morning and I don't think you'd want to postpone your revolution because I kicked your balls into your stomach cavity. Now drive and shut your damn mouth."

"All right, all right!" he said, still holding us gun. "Jesus, you babes are so testy these days."

"And put that fucking cannon away, man," Wendy demanded, staring at him until he reluctantly put the gun back beneath the seat.

She hoped that this guy was just a singular jerk, but steeled herself for the possibility that no, he probably wasn't.

* * *

Their "headquarters," situated at an apartment overlooking the Potomac, looked less like a revolutionary HQ than a cluttered college rec room. There was even a pool table, for god's sake. There were several desks and stuffed chairs and a cot and kitchenette, along with the usual markings of a revolutionary cult: the inevitable posters of Che Guevara and Huey Newton, an autographed picture of Mark Rudd leading student rowdies at Columbia, a blown-up newspaper picture of Patty Hearst in SLA gear taped to the wall. Wendy recognized them all from a million textbooks and documentaries and internet images but to her, they were more cliches than things that were real and tangible and actually meant something.

"Look who the cat dragged in," another man with shoulder length blond hair laughed as Wendy and her chauffeur entered. "Having fun with your square up in Georgetown?"

"More fun than I'd be having here," Wendy muttered.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you were angling for a cabinet post," the blond man laughed.

"Hey man, Charlotte's in a pissy mood today," the first radical warned. "Wouldn't press her about it too much."

"Ugh, you girls manage to sync up or what?"

Wendy didn't bother hiding her anger and disdain. Fortunately, another woman, olive-skinned and brown dressed in a dark red blouse and a leather skirt (Becky, Wendy guessed from earlier) walked in.

"Dirk, Bill, shut your mouths," she snapped. "We've got bigger things to worry about than your inadequacies these days."

"This dipshit thought the best way to be discreet was driving full-speed through the streets," Wendy complained.

"Not smart, Dirk," Becky shook her head. "You want the pigs coming down on us before we have a chance to do anything. Use your head for a change."

"Hey, I don't have to take this you from you chicks," Bill whined. "Not like you're the ones risking your lives in all this..."

"We don't have time to debate how you're a reactionary chauvinist pig," Becky snapped. "Right now we've gotta get everything in order." She gestured for the young man to sit down, and he did, grudgingly. The blond man laughed and lit up a cigarette.

"Chandler's doing a sweep to make sure there's no bugs or wires here," Dirk said, joining it. "Dude is paranoid and he isn't even baked."

"We have every reason to be paranoid," Bill insisted, blowing out a huge ring of smoke. "Tomorrow shit's going down and we're gonna bring down the Federal government. Unless you fuck it up."

Wendy sat as far away from these creeps as possible, crossing her legs and looking around at the radical paraphernalia. Over top of the two men, now smoking and sulking in their preposterous plans and wounded masculinity, was a strange piece of art - what looked like a crude flag, two pieces of fabric (one red, one white) stitched diagonally together, with the letters "PLV" and a clenched fist sketched in the middle. Next to it was a defaced picture of Richard Nixon and Spiro Agnew, the latter with his face scratched out with white chalk. "ONE PIG DOWN" read a crudely-sketched caption underneath the Vice President.

"All right, I think we're clean." A fourth man, black haired and quiet, clean-shaven and his hair markedly shorter than the others. Chandler Monahan, remembering Ford's disdainful lecture.

"You get a haircut, dude?" Wendy asked, noting how different he looked from the picture she'd seen the previous day.

"Man, don't get on me about that stuff," he murmured. "You're the one who's balling one of the President's men. Take a long look in the mirror, Red."

"Just asking," Wendy said defensively. Every word had to be a casual insult with these guys. They were really uptight, though Wendy could understand why.

"Right, you sure we're good?" Becky asked, before grabbing Dirk's cigarette from the ashtray and scooping it into her own mouth. Chandler nodded.

"All right, folks, this is not a drill," she said, holding court over her comrades. "This is the real shindig, the big shebang, hopefully the Revolution. We've already got enough dynamite to blow up half the Eastern Seaboard, we just need to pick it up and assemble everything. Chan, you got that?"

"Sure thing," he said, giving her an "okay" sign.

"They say it only takes a small group of committed citizens to change the world," Becky said, talking frantically, pulling the cigarette in and out of her mouth as she spoke. "Well baby, we're about to prove it! Fidel only started out with, what, a dozen cats up in the mountains of Cuba and look where he ended up. Ho Chi Minh, alone and shivering with malaria in a jungle nine years before he liberate Southeast Asia. Lenin, alone at the train station with nothing but those Menshevik sellouts to heckle him. Well, now five Americans are gonna take down the most decayed, degraded empire the world has ever known!"

The boys gave a hearty, fratboy "hear, hear" and "right on!" to her little speech, Dirk clapping enthusiastically. Bill, with a goofy grin on his face, ran over and put on an old-fashioned leather football helmet.

"Tomorrow's the day and everything's gonna go according to plan. These squares and their liberal friends-" she spit out the word _liberal_ like a curse - "think getting rid of Tricky Dicky will fix everything that's wrong with this country. Well, no deal. If Nixon runs back to Yorba Linda and that little lemon grove tomorrow he's still leaving the Wall Street parasites and their imperialist pals in charge. Different names, different faces, same deal. We need something more than the removal of a President. We need something more drastic than impeachment. Something real."

Wendy watched in silence, alternately entranced and terrified by Becky's speechifying. Her manner of speaking was both forceful and shaky, and she couldn't help admiring her passion. Yet the words she was actually saying were horrifying. She felt a dread weight building upon her chest, as the full implications of her own mission came to mind.

She listened to Becky spell out, in mind-blowing detail, their plan: they were going to construct a bomb using forty tons of explosives and - my God, _this_ made Wendy terrified - uranium and blow up the Capitol Building while Congress was in session. And what terrified her more, they were expecting Chandler and her to deliver it. Wendy would drag Dipper - Richard Anderson, whatever - to the Capitol and they would help Chandler infiltrate it as a friend of theirs. Then he would detonate the bomb in a caucus room, somewhere it would do the most amount of damage possible. The rest of the cell would broadcast a

It struck Wendy as an incredibly stupid, insane plan. Even if, somehow, it worked, their own little cell would be obliterated by the blast, there would be nuclear fallout all over the city. She wasn't a scientist, but she knew enough about radioactivity to realize this wasn't good.

And then what? What would happen?

"Once the People see their leaders, the warmongers and whores and imperialists gone up in a Hiroshima cloud," Becky lectured, "they're gonna recognize it's time for a Second American Revolution. A _real_ Revolution. Time to put the People in power, not slave-owners and their fascist descendants. Not just the honkiest of honkies but the brothers, the Chicanos, everyone whose ever felt crushed under the boot heel of Uncle Sam. What happens to us won't matter."

Oh, _of course_. The People are going to flock to DC, or what's left of it, and spontaneously sculpt a newer, freer government on the radioactive ashes.

Wendy knew it was insane. But what could she do, or say, to stop them? She just hoped that these bozos were as dumb and klutzy as they were mad. But, given what Blendin had said to her, she wasn't willing to count on it.

* * *

Wendy was almost grateful to leave the hideout. Dirk asked her to accompany him to a meeting with a fence who was supplying the PLV army-grade assault rifles. Considering everything that was going on, that most of them likely wouldn't even be alive in 24 hours, it seemed a bizarre thing to worry about.

The fence was a stocky Asian man with sunglasses, a Black Panther beret and a bare wisp of a mustache. He called himself Saito, and he spoke with a slight but noticeable accent.

"Everything in order?" Dirk asked.

"Everything," the fence confirmed. He gestured and led them to a truck parked in a back alley. He opened the trunk and showed off a small arsenal of sub-machine guns, assault rifles and other assorted armaments. Wendy audibly gulped at the sight of it, but her companions didn't seem to hear her.

"Now, for your day-to-day use - expropriation of funds, kidnapping, things like that, I'd recommend these." Saito pointed to some old German machine pistols, the kind Wendy had only seen in old war movies before. "They're older models of course, but easy to conceal, easy to use - pray and spray types."

He hefted one out and sighted down the barrel, aiming it at an unsuspecting passer-by. Fortunately, the gun wasn't loaded, and when he pulled the trigger all that happened was laughter.

"Of course, if you're into heavy-duty revolutionary shit," he said, picking out an AR-15. "These are like those M-16s they use in Vietnam. They're harder to conceal and harder to use - big kick-back, only fire semi-auto. But if you're planning on any kind of military operation, I'd recommend 'em."

Dirk crossed his arms, biting his lip. "How much?"

"Well, the Schmeissers I can give you pretty cheap," Saito said. "Eighty dollars each. Plus twenty dollars for each clip of ammunition. The AR-15s though aren't being marketed to civilians just now, so they're gonna cost you a lot more."

"How much more?" Dirk asked. "Money is no object, man."

"I'd say about $700 per rifle." Wendy's eyes went wide, and she saw even Dirk blanch at that figure. He looked to her as if for guidance; Wendy numbly shrugged and shook her head.

"Yeah...I think we'll stick with the smaller guns," he muttered.

"Good choice," the fence grinned. He lifted two small weapons out of the trunk and passed one to Wendy and another to Dirk. Wendy cradled the weapon in her arms, surprised at how heavy it felt.

"These things fire, what, thirty rounds a clip?" Dirk asked. Saito nodded.

"Now, I'm going to need payment before I give these to you," Saito said. "Usually this is all prearranged, but I understand you guys have something heavy planned for the next few days."

"You better keep that quiet," Dirk muttered, aiming his weapon at the fence, who laughed.

"I don't ask questions," Saito insisted, throwing up his arms. "I merely tell you why I'm offering such a bargain, without any prior arrangement. But the price is, I need your money now and not later. Full payment."

Dirk sighed heavily, looking around sheepishly. Then he slowly, reluctantly, handed his gun back to the dealer, who placed it and Wendy's into the trunk of his car.

"Can I get back to you later?" Dirk asked. "We kind of have another transaction later that's going to eat up a lot of money."

The fence stared impassively, considering it. "I'm already taking a huge risk meeting you in public like this," he said. "Who knows, there could be G-Men watching us as we speak." Wendy saw, or thought he saw, the dealer wink as he said this, but she wondered if that wasn't her imagination.

"Maybe we could meet in about two hours," Dirk said helplessly, hands in his pockets like a guilty child. "You pick the place, we'll be there."

Saito nodded. "All right, we'll meet at the old McDonald's. You know the one, I'm sure," he said to Wendy.

"Uhh...yeah," she said, confused by his comment.

"Splendid. Meet me at around 2:00 pm. I'll give you five minutes. If you don't show, the deal's off."

"Works for me," Dirk said, extending a hand for Saito to shake. Saito smiled and nodded. "I only shake upon completion of a deal." Then he slammed the trunk shut and got into his car, driving off down the alley.

"Well, that was an unpleasant surprise," Dirk remarked to Wendy.

"Yeah," Wendy said, still dazed by the enormity of what was going on.

"So, you wanna grab some chow?" Dirk asked. "Maybe grab a burger and then, I dunno, bone somewhere?"

Wendy practically choked on that gross suggestion.

"What is _with_ you people?" Wendy shouted, punching her "comrade" as hard as she could. "Can't you guys think about anything besides your dicks? We're about to kill a few thousand people and...Jesus!"

"Since when you are so uptight?" Dirk complained. "You didn't seem too uptight to blow me in Pittsburgh last month, let alone all those times in Chicago. I know Becky's all about women carrying their load, but this is..."

"Enough! I'll help you guys out, but I'm not gonna let you treat me like some toy, all right?"

Wendy was beyond caring how she sounded. Maybe the real Charlotte didn't mind being treated like this, but she sure as hell wasn't going to take it.

"Whoa, emotions!" Dirk laughed. "Guess your nerves are just getting to you, huh babe? I understand, it's not every day you get to overthrow the government." He pulled himself close to Wendy and cupped her breast. "I know just how we can work that off..."

Something inside Wendy snapped; she saw red, reacting without really thinking. She kneed Dirk as hard as she could in the stomach, sending him sprawling backward.

"Bitch," he croaked, bending over in pain. Then he stood back up and lunged for her with a combination of hate and lust in his eyes.

Wendy didn't break a sweat. She elbowed him in the breadbasket, then grabbed his arm and popped it behind his back. Dirk yelped in pain, begging and pleading for her to let him.

"You wanna run that by me again, pal?" Wendy growled into his ear. "Maybe you need to learn some manners..."

But Dirk stomped on Wendy's foot and forced her to release him. As he turned himself around, Wendy punched him in the side of the head. Harder than she'd expected. And he went flying to the ground, hitting his head off the pavement and passing out.

Wendy stood over him, letting her anger and adrenaline subside. She heard the sounds of traffic and realized that they were perilously close to a public place. She wondered if someone had seen or heard, if she'd be arrested. And part of her worried that what she had just done would somehow mess up the timeline.

But mostly, she didn't care. She wasn't going to let some creep, revolutionary or not, in 1974 or a half-century later, treat her like that. And if these loonies had one less creep to help carry out their revolution, so much the better.

Wendy realized that Dirk had left the keys in his car ignition. Leaving him sprawled unconscious on the ground, she shifted the car into gear and drove off, narrowly missing an oncoming truck. She didn't care about the precise measure of their plan - she wanted to get back to Georgetown, or DC, or Gravity Falls, or somewhere these creeps wouldn't find her, immediately.

She had tears in her eyes as what had just happened registered with her, as the enormity of their plot sunk in. But she managed to keep herself from sobbing, channeling her anger and shock into grim determination. She was still a Corduroy, dammit, and she had a job to do.


	7. Chapter 7

**July 24th, 1974**

 **Washington, DC**

 **9:00 AM**

So far, Mabel loved being a Congresswoman!

It's true that she had to get up super-early, and without the benefit of Mabel Juice, but having a swank old timey limousine with a car phone made up for it. She loved the sight of DC bustling with traffic and tourists and wished that she didn't have an agenda to distract her from sightseeing on her own. She had arrived at the Capitol steps at the crack of dawn and saw two separate groups of protesters camped out, waiting for the day to begin.

The first group were cranky and surly Nixon haters, with signs displaying varying degrees of vulgarity and profanity, their clothes ranging from casual business clothes to dirty T-shirts. Mabel was impressed that they were camped out so early, and she felt drawn to them - people her real age!

"Hi, I'm Mabel...Erm, Angelica Schuyler!" She extended her hand to a curious, quizzical protester. "No wait, that's not right. _**Ariel**_ Schuyler. Sorry, it's early!"

"We know who you are, ma'am," the young man said impatiently. "We've seen you here over the past few weeks and you never give us so much as a glance backwards." His voice dripped resentment, but other protesters were gathering around, curious and amused.

"Sorry about that," Mabel said. "This impeachment business is getting me down in the dumps."

"It has the whole country down in the dumps, ma'am," the man continued. "You're debating."

Mabel thought and tried to remember tricks from her _Succeeding in Management 1983_. Its lessons were applicable thirty years after it was written; in 1974 it would positively cutting edge!

"All right people, rap with me!" she said, sitting down on the Capitol steps. There was an approving murmur as the students gathered around.

"Why do you think the President should be impeached?" she asked. From Mabel Pines, it was a perfectly innocent, reasonable question. For Ariel Schuyler, it must have seemed ridiculous. But most of the crowd were willing to engage her nonetheless.

"He violated the Constitution!" a woman shouted. Mabel nodded her assent.

"He expanded an illegal war into a neutral country," someone else offered.

"Oh wow, that **is** bad!" Mabel gasped.

"He abused his powers as Chief Executive," a more studious, well-dressed person put in.

"I just don't like him," someone else said.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Mabel waved her hands. "Those are all great reasons. But have you ever thought about seeing things from his perspective? Maybe he had a good reason for doing all of those things?"

"Yeah, wanting to end democracy in America!" an angry kid complained.

"Quit treating us like a bunch of kids!" the woman from earlier screamed.

"Okay, sorry, I'm just trying to hear you all out," Mabel insisted.

"What do you know or care about us?" the first man said, eyes shooting hatred. "You're a Republican from one of New York's oldest and richest families. With all due respect, ma'am, why should we believe you have our best interests at heart?"

"True," Mabel admitted. "I **am** from a powerful family, I guess. All the more reason I should use that power to do good!"

She thought about Pacifica and Preston Northwest and how much being rich and successful had warped their lives and actions. She tried to frame President Nixon, who before today had just been another one of Grunkle Stan's renegade wax figures, in the same light and it became easier for her to understand.

"Believe me, I know what power can do to people!" she said. "It can make them cray-cray...crazy and criminal and do things that are objectively bad. Whether it's a president or a congressman or woman or a rich jerk with lots of money and no soul. I've seen it up close, and brother, it ain't pretty!"

Murmurs in the crowd, skeptical but coming around to her.

"So if there's any dirt that needs cleaned up in this city, whether it's under the President's fingernails or in a dusty filing cabinet, Ariel Schuyler will do it!" She bolted to her feet and struck a heroic pose. "Let's make sure that we clean all the dirt out of Washington!"

And the crowd burst into applause and cheering, the students rushing forward to shake her hand, asking her for autographs, a few even snapping her picture.

 _So **this** is why people enter politics, _Mabel reflected, beaming with delight. For a moment, she liked it, thinking about all the ways she could change the world, if only she would _listen_ to people and let them have a say in government. Truly, the dream of all idealistic eighteen year olds everywhere - and not a few starry-eyed adults, either.

Then she spotted the second group of protesters nearby. Most of them appeared to be young white men and women, immaculately dressed, hair cut as short as possible, many bearing sandwich boards with pictures of Congressmen or holding signs reading "Support the President" or "Forgive, Love, Unite."

"Excuse me guys, I'm gonna go schmooze with them," Mabel said, tearing herself away from her new admirers.

"Miss Schuyler..." someone warned her, but she didn't listen.

"Hi there!" she greeted a thirty-ish man who looked like the leader. Mabel noticed a dead look in his eyes, but shot him her trademark smile regardless.

"You are Miss Schuyler, right?" the man said in a flat monotone.

"Indeed!" Mabel said. "Glad you know me."

"We're all praying for you today, ma'am," the man said, handing Mabel a pamphlet. Mabel turned it over in her hand and saw the stern face of a white-haired man in religious garb, standing in front of a double cross embossed with a G - the same symbol the cultists sported on their lapel pins. The images were surrounded by a semi-coherent bundle of slogans:

 **MESSAGE FROM REVEREND GLEEFUL**

 **TRUE AMERICANS AND REAL CHRISTIANS SUPPORT THE PRESIDENT**

 **FORGIVE, LOVE, UNITE**

 **HEAL THE NATION**

 **SAVE THE WORLD**

"Whoa, you guys are pretty intense!" she said, laughing. It was not the response that they'd hoped for. "And does one of you have my face on your little sandwich thing?"

A young woman stepped forward and she, indeed, had a picture of the real Ariel Schuyler under a message reading "I Am Praying For."

"We hope that you and your colleagues will make the right decision and save the United States from its traducers," the first man said. "We trust that God and Reverend Gleeful will be with you and guide your decision." The man clasped her hand, and he and the rest all dropped to one knee, bowing their head as one.

"Um...okay, guys, you can get up," Mabel assured them, deeply creeped out by what was going on. "I'm not God..."

"But God can work **through** you," the leader said with his eyes blazing demented passion, "if only you let Him! And the way to do that is to vote _against_ impeachment! The fate of Mankind rests in your hands."

"Forgive! Love! Unite!" the crowd chanted from behind him.

"Heal the Nation!" the leader said.

"Save the World!" answered his followers, raising their fists, still bent down on one knee.

At this point, Mabel was seriously disturbed. She tore himself away from the churchgoers, wondering if they really thought God cared about a petty political argument. But she wasn't really interested in debating the point with them. Quickly, she rushed up the Capitol steps and into the lobby.

* * *

"Ma'am, what are you doing out there?" a young, prematurely balding man in a wrinkled suit and comb-over said, running up to her as she entered the Capitol lobby. "You know better than to engage the damn demonstrators."

"Don't treat me like a child," Mabel snapped, bristling at his condescension. "And I can meet with them if I want. They're my constituents, after all."

"Your constituents are the people of the New York 29th," the aide reminded her snappishly. "Not those loonies and Moonies out there. They don't know their asses from a hole in the ground."

"Watch your mouth," Mabel said. Barely a paragraph out of this kid's mouth and she'd already gotten his nerves.

"Sorry ma'am," he said, somewhat startled. "Chairman Rodino wants to see you as soon as possible. They're getting ready for the debate tonight. I already see them lining up for the debate."

"Hey, Ariel!" a harsh, raspy voice beckoned. Mabel turned and saw a squat, ruddy man in a snug blue suit approaching her. "Barely made it in past the creeps today, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Mabel said.

"It's really coming down out there," he said, fiddling with his collar. "All the crazies and angries descending on us. Say, Charlie and I wanted to talk with you about..."

"Mr. Sandman, Ms. Schuyler just got here," Mabel's aide told the Congressman. "Give her a moment to catch her breath, huh?"

Sandman leered an insincere salesman's grin. "I gotta tell you Ariel, you've got one hell of an assistant. Doesn't mind talking to Congressmen like he's one himself. Maybe some day, huh? Anyway, please make time, if you can." He placed a hand on her shoulder.

"I'll do my best," Mabel assured him.

"We Republicans need to stick together," he continued. Then, in a sotto growl: "At least some of the time."

"Yeah, I guess," Mabel murmured, watching Sandman stalk off, spotting another representative.

Mabel's aide sighed and shook his head. "He knows he's gonna lose, right? He has to know at this point."

A tall, thin young woman with curled Jackie Kennedy hair and sweater vest walked up to them both.

"Hey Tyler, who knows what?" she asked.

"Oh hi Chelsea, Sandman's at it again," Tyler groaned. "Still thinks all of us Republicans need to stick together, the usual bullshit. Well, enough at this point. I mean, really, whose mind does he think he's going to change with that old song-and-dance?"

"Do you expect anything less?" Chelsea said, starting down the hall. Mabel decided to follow her; she seemed to know where she was going.

"Hey Ariel, we need to talk about that Agriculture Bill, huh?" a hoarse male voice called from the elevator.

"You know it!" Mabel shouted back, shooting him a thumb's up. What agriculture bill? Did it matter? Was it something she'd have to learn about? Was it as boring as it sounded? Do pigs count as agriculture? Oh my God, the Waddles Bill lives!

"Sandman and Wiggins are terrified," Chelsea continued, brushing past another page. "They know Rhodes isn't doing much to hold the Republican committee members together, and _some of us_ are going to vote our conscience anyway. Impeachment is a sure thing at this point - definitely in the committee, probably in the full House."

"And they don't have control over the Senate anyway," Tyler interrupted.

"But if we're all Republicans..." Mabel started, then stopped herself. Best not to come off as too uninformed about political things. After all, she was a Congresswoman.

* * *

They arrived in Mabel's (Ariel's) tiny office, and she had a huge stack of mail on her desk.

"And these are the ones that **weren't** overt death threats," Tyler groaned. "Do you want me to open your mail?"

"Nah! Give me something to do!" Mabel chirped, sitting down and tearing into the letters. The assistants shared a befuddled glance as she went.

"Ooh, this one has a drawing!" Mabel said, with a crude picture of Ariel Schuyler holding hands with a little girl. "Dear Congresswoman, My name is Deborah, I'm fourteen and I live in Rensselaer," Mabel read. "Hah, great name for a town! Oh, New York! I met you when you campaigned in town during the election last year and I told my daddy I was proud if he'd vote for a woman. He said that he'd always vote for a Republican and so he was happy to make my wish come true!

Mabel leaned back and clutched the letter to her chest. "Isn't that adorable? I'm an inspiration!"

"Just darling," Tyler said. "Ma'am, if we could..."

" _Anyway_ , my daddy hopes that you will vote against impeachment because he thinks the President is a good man and everyone's being unfair to him. But between you and me, I think you should vote whichever way your conscious...I think she means conscience here, isn't that cute...tells you. That matters more than politics."

Mabel looked at the letter. "This is the sweetest letter I've ever read."

"Ma'am, are you doing okay?" Chelsea asked. "I mean, this is a big day - maybe the biggest one of your career so far. You need to be at the top of your game..."

"You, baldy, get me a pen and paper!" Mabel commanded. "I'm going to write Deborah back."

"Are you kidding?" Tyler asked.

"Who's the Congresswoman here?" Mabel said. "Get me that pen and paper."

Tyler looked at Chelsea and shrugged, then went over to a shelf and looked for a clean sheet of paper.

"Well, you won't be surprised that not all of your letters are this way," Chelsea said, looking at another letter. "Dear Ms. Schuyler, My name is Scott Birch from Troy, but I could be anyone from the 29th. I voted for you in the last election despite my concerns that a woman shouldn't hold a seat in Congress. Because you convinced me that you were smart and a fighter enough that you'd stick by the President no matter what the media and those Democrats said. Well, now that you're going pinko I don't think I can support you any more. If you support impeachment, there'll be hell to pay. Signed, the voice of your constituents."

"What's a pinko?" Mabel asked, grabbing impatiently as Tyler offered her a pen and paper. "Dear Deborah..."

"Ma'am," Chelsea said, exasperated, "are you really going to...?"

"Up-up-up!" Mabel interrupted her. "The Congresswoman is working," she said in a harsh whisper. And she began writing in silence as her aides stared impatiently, waiting for her to finish.

Out in the hallway there was a minor ruckus. Mabel looked up and saw a well-dressed black woman with glasses rushing down the hallway. "I told you, sir, you know how I am going to vote and you are not going to persuade me!"

"Ms. Jordan, the group I represent supports the President and we need you to reconsider your vote," came another voice, then a man frantically bolting after her.

" _A lot_ of people support the President," she shot back, turning round on him with righteous fury. "And many of them live in my district and believe me, I hear from them every day. We disagree but they have the right to be heard. You, on the other hand, are not only one of Rabbi Korff's followers but from, I believe, _Connecticut_ , not Texas, and therefore I owe you nothing \- not my time, not my vote, not even my politeness or attention. Now be gone before I have the Capitol police drag you out of here in handcuffs."

"This is a great way for you to represent the people," the man snarled. Then he noticed Mabel and stuck his head in the door.

"Hi ma'am, I'm Richard Silverman with the National Committee for Fairness to the Presidency," he said, forcing a smile onto his face. "Could I have a moment of your time to..."

"Out!" Tyler snapped. And as he said that, a uniformed Capitol policeman grabbed the interloper firmly by the arm and pulled him away.

"Who was that?" Mabel asked.

"Just some loony who thinks the President can do no wrong," Tyler sighed.

" **Why** is he loony?" Mabel asked with uncomprehending sincerity. "Isn't he entitled to an opinion?"

"I mean, the First Amendment is a thing," her aide said, burying his face in his hands. "So I suppose that's true. But at this point, if you're defending Richard Nixon, you've obviously got your head in the sand."

Mabel felt frustrated beyond belief. She was still a bit fuzzy on this whole impeachment thing, despite Charlie's best efforts and the glimmers of heated rhetoric she'd overheard throughout the day so far. And yet, she wasn't in a position to ask for help. She was a _Congresswoman_ , for goodness sake, she should **know**. If only there were someone to help her...Too bad Charlie was off with his cult friends somewhere, hanging out with Gideon's even-creepier ancestor.

Then, as she puzzled this out, an idea to work around, even through her ignorance. Now she spotted an opportunity to catch herself up to speed _without_ seeming like a complete moron.

"Tell ya what," she said to her aides. "Let's go over it all again."

"Go over what again?" he asked.

"The whole deal," Mabel said. "Impeachment, this Watergate business, why Richard Nixon is a poopy head. Just so I'm not forgetting anything."

"Are you serious?" Tyler said incredulously. "After the past few months..."

"I have to give a speech tonight, right?" Mabel said, standing. "I want to make sure I have every argument down and that I don't seem like a silly idiot in front of the whole country."

"It wouldn't hurt to practice," Chelsea offered.

"This girl gets it!" Mabel said, high-fiving her female aide.

"All right," Tyler sighed. "Might as well have everything ready." And he closed the door and prepared to prime his boss and what arguments to make and what she should expect.

* * *

Outside, the leader of the Gleeful Ones pulled himself away from his followers for a moment, turning leadership over to a younger follower. He walked over to a payphone a block away from the Capitol and dialed a number.

"This is the Apostle Paul," he said into the telephone. "Sadly, I do not think we're changing any minds here. Most of the Congresspeople have made up their minds already, and worse, they are ignoring us. The only ones who have engaged...Anyway, tell Reverend Gleeful what's going on. Ask him if we're to initiate Plan Seraph. I will call you back at this number in about an hour and I expect an answer."

He didn't wait for a response, hanging up and returning as quickly as possible to his colleagues. He didn't notice the man parked down the street, photographing him as he ran.


	8. Chapter 8

**July 24th, 1974**

 **10:00 am**

Wendy drove for forty minutes straight, and barely made it more than a few miles into the outskirts of DC. This capital traffic was a nightmare; her only consolation was that it ensured that any pursuers she'd have wouldn't be moving very fast, either.

At least the traffic allowed her to clear her head, for flakes of information to shake loose from her short-term memory so she could process what she'd seen and heard and lived through. Besides the obvious - her newfound radical pals were planning to bomb the Capitol Building, no, rather, _destroy_ it; that she'd cold-cocked a grabby terrorist and stolen his car - the first thing that popped into her head was Becky mentioning the Gleefuls - that they were meeting with them about something or other, presumably to acquire weapons or explosives or some such for furtherance of their plans.

 _The Gleefuls_. Well, that made things even _more_ complicated, didn't it? Though it didn't make much sense; weren't they _supporting_ the President? What would evangelicals and radical leftists have in common? And in any case, Wendy hadn't a clue what she could do with this information.

Her first thought was to call the police, but the more she thought about it, the less it seemed like a good idea. After all, she was one of the terrorists, and she didn't want to risk an arrest or having to argue or fight her way out of jail - not until everything was safely sorted out.

There was Dipper, of course, but how could she reach him at the White House? She couldn't imagine herself hanging around a phone booth waiting for a call to get through the White House switchboard. Dipper worked for the President, for God's sake; she'd be lucky if she even got to leave a message. Especially with everything going on.

Maybe Mabel? Same deal, even worse; Mabel was an actual _Congresswoman_. There's no way, Wendy thought, she could get through to her. And who knows what messed-up thing Charlie was currently ensnared in.

As she drove, Wendy spotted a small gas station alongside the road and pulled off. She parked her car and sat for a long moment, head against the wheel, breathing heavily, puzzling out her next course of action. She looked up and spotted a small payphone inside the gas station, then decided, what the hell?

She fished around in her pockets for change. She found a tattered dollar bill. Well, that would have to do, she guessed. I can make change or whatever.

The gas station was small and cramped. Wendy brushed past a haggard-looking man with a long white beard mindlessly fingering a bunch of nudie magazines. The proprietor, a balding, sweaty gentleman, was in a shouting match with a fat and furious customer over the price of some cigarettes, with his wife meekly standing by his side. Wendy rolled her eyes and started to leave when the first man approached her.

"Ma'am, do you have a dollar?" he asked. "I need some cash for somethin' to eat."

"I only have a dollar, man, and I kinda need it," she said impatiently.

"Come on, you gimme that dollar and I'll give you three quarters back."

"That's not much of a deal," Wendy said. Though she shot a glance over at the proprietor and realized this might be the quickest way to get change...

"Hey, dickhead!" the proprietor shouted at Wendy's new friend. "Leave my customers alone."

"Screw you, honky! I'm just tryin' to get somethin' to eat. Mind your own damn business."

"This is my store, these are my customers, it's **my** business!" the owner shouted at him.

"Oh, _now_ we're your customers!?" the angry man shouted at him, blowing stinking breath and flaming spittle in his face.

"SHUT YOUR GODDAMNED MOUTH BEFORE I BELOW YOUR HEAD OFF!" the proprietor screamed at the top of his lungs. "You're worse than the fucking kids who come in here and just steal things. And I'd rather deal with that character over there than you right now. At least he's honest about the kind of person he is."

"Hey man, I'll make that trade," Wendy said, handing the vagrant her dollar bill. He seemed genuinely surprised and pleased at her generosity.

"God bless you, ma'am," he said, producing three quarters as promised. "Thank you so, so much. I'm gonna get out of here and find somethin' to keep me full."

"Good luck with that, man," Wendy said. The two shook hands.

"God bless you," he said again. "And screw you, cracker!" he shouted to the proprietor, before flipping the bird and exiting the store.

Wendy shook her head, amused, as she walked to the phone and put one of the quarters in the slot. She dialed Dipper's White House office number and waited.

"White House switchboard," a pleasant female voice came on the line.

"Hi, I need to speak to...Richard Anderson." Wendy had to catch herself, remember who she was, where she was... _when_ she was. "Tell him this is urgent. Family matter," she added as an afterthought.

"One moment," the operator said. Wendy waited a long, seemingly endless moment, trying to crowd out the ongoing shouts in the store behind her, then she was redirected to an answering service.

"Goddammit, man," Wendy muttered. "Look Dipper, this is Wendy. Sorry if this gives the game away but whatever man, things are messed up. Need you to call me back when you can. I'll be back at your place in about half-an-hour and I'll hang out there. God, I hope you get this."

Then she hung up and started out to her car. By this point, the store owner actually had brandished a handgun and waved it at the angry customer, which didn't seem to deescalate the situation. But Wendy barely noticed. She had too many other things on her mind right now, least of all how to get back to Dipper's place without attracting attention. Or, she thought, forgetting the address...

* * *

Dipper knew his next call wouldn't be anything fun when they identified themselves as IRS. He wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into by agreeing to this mission - whether _he_ wasn't going to end the day dead or in jail, let alone everyone else in Washington.

"Hi, this is Brad Jurgovich from Internal Revenue," the man said over the phone line. "Returning the call you made a couple days ago re: the Church of Revelations and Reverend Gleeful's audit. Well, I ran it by the director and told him the request to suspend investigation came from the very top. He told me that's obstruction of justice and that you guys should be in enough trouble these days that you shouldn't be using your muscle for this kind of shit. Sorry Rick, his words. Wish I could help, but sometimes even we need to obey the law."

"No, no, I understand," Dipper said, amazed. "Can you, uh, give me any more information?"

"Over a White House phone? Man, I could already go to prison for just calling you if someone's listening in! I know things are going to hell for your boss right now, but seriously Rick, you're too smart to get caught up in this bullshit. Just leave this alone and hopefully it will be the end of the matter. Keep this up and there won't be another Republican president in our lifetimes. Oh, and if Ken Clawson or Dean Burch put you up to this, and they ask what I told you, tell them from one Republican to another that they need to go fuck themselves."

And he hung up, leaving Dipper astounded that everything Grunkle Stan had told him about Richard Nixon was, if anything, _too_ generous. At least now he knew _why_ Reverend Gleeful wanted the President to stay in office so much...

* * *

John Rhodes had the unenviable task of being House Minority Leader as his party crumbled from the inside out. Every bone in his body, every pulse of his heart told him the President was guilty and needed to go, if not for himself or the Party than for the country. That even if, somehow, he _weren't_ guilty, if everything that had come out was a frame-up or an exaggeration or an outright lie, this thing had gone too far and it was too late to save him. Yet he still retained loyalty to his President, a healthy fear of the Party's base, the same screechers who wrote and called his office daily, deluging him with threats every time he so much as hinted that it might be better for everyone if the President resigned. The same ones who voted in primaries and could run some screaming Bircher nutcase against him. And where would Congress and the Republican Party be _then_?

Now, out of stubborn loyalty to a man who, frankly, Rhodes felt didn't deserve any, he'd been hosting last minute, one-on-one meetings of all the Republicans on the Judiciary Committee in an effort to persuade their votes. He brought with him the President's two biggest supporters on the Committee, Charlie Wiggins, the urbane Californian and Charles Sandman, the rough-housing ward-heeler from New Jersey, to provide pressure. At the last moment he invited the House Whip, Oliver Pemberton, a silver-haired conservative from Florida, in hope of impressing the seriousness of his request upon everyone.

"Now Ariel," Rhodes said to his latest invitee, the youngest member of the Committee and its only Republican woman, "we're all up to our necks in this mess. I realize that you've got your conscience and your constituents to appeal to, as we all do. And your district is a bit more combustible than many of ours. But we just wanted to see if there's anything we could to impress upon you how important it is to stand by your President and your party at this point time."

The real Ariel Schuyler, an upstate New York Republican, might well have been receptive to his appeal to Party loyalty. Mabel Pines, an apolitical girl from future California, couldn't care less. She swung her legs back and forth impatiently, waiting for her turn to speak.

"Nope!" she said. "He is guilty and I'm not gonna let him off the hook." Rhodes sank down in his chair and looked at the die-hards assembled around him. He didn't have the heart to press the argument himself.

"Ms. Schuyler," Wiggins said, coming off like a friendly, slightly condescending professor, "you can't possibly be persuaded by the so-called 'evidence' that's been presented this far. All that's been proven is that some people who worked for the President went a bit too far in campaigning for him, but they've all been caught. In order to impeach, I think we'd have to prove that he performed specific acts of criminality to remove from office."

Mabel huffed a deep breath. On the one hand, she didn't care what these old guys told her; she knew how she was going to vote already. But she also didn't want to seem like a silly idiot. She hoped that some of what Tyler and Chelsea had told her in her marathon quiz session would stick.

"I mean, your argument is that the President didn't know what was happening," Mabel said. "That's baloney, and here's why." And she recited, with a detailed recollection that surprised herself, the detail she'd absorbed about the break-in, the cover-ups, the tapes, the testimony...she rambled on for a solid ten minutes, barely stopping for breath. She wished Charlie was here to see her; he'd be so proud.

"You've absorbed the other side's arguments pretty well," Sandman huffed, his back to Mabel. "But what proof do we have for any of this? The President can't be convicted on insinuations. Ridiculous!" He clapped his hands and turned around with an angry trucker's glower.

"Dozens of people have testified to all of this," Mabel said, growing exasperated, uncertain as to her own argument. "And we have the tapes! The President himself directing all of this..."

"All circumstantial evidence," Wiggins assured her, with a cool reality denial that Mabel felt she couldn't possibly fight. "We see the President advising his aides on how to testify, how to handle an unfortunate situation, and that isn't a crime. Or at least, it's not an impeachable offense. High crimes and misdemeanors need to be extremely serious, and not..."

"The House can impeach on whatever it wants!" Mabel snapped, parroting an argument Tyler had made in jest a few minutes earlier. This took Wiggins aback, and Sandman pounded his fist into the palm of his hand.

Mabel's self-assurance deflated with each passing moment. They felt so sure, so right, and she was just stepping into the shoes of someone. She looked at Rhodes, who was fiddling with a pencil at his desk, wishing he weren't there. No help from that quarter.

"Isn't it amazing!" Sandman snarled, turning back to the wall. "This young woman has arrogated herself the right to sit in judgment of a duly elected president on the grounds that she doesn't like him. Or she had a friendly talk with some protesters on the Capitol steps this morning. Or maybe because it's that time of the month and that unfortunate fact is clouding her judgment."

"Charlie," Wiggins said with shock and disgust. At this, Pemberton, who'd been silent and inattentive, bolted up his Southern sensibilities delicately attuned to a woman's honor.

"Isn't it incredible!" Sandman continued, oblivious to his more decorous colleagues. "Only one president in history has ever been impeached, and that failed because it was a nakedly partisan affair. And so is this, let's not kid ourselves! If Dick Nixon were a Democrat, this whole sad, sorry, shabby thing would be swept under the rug and Sam Ervin and Rodino and all these flacks and liberals would be crying foul any time we mentioned it.

"Well, to hell with it! Let's call facts what they are, sweetie!" he said, walking over to Mabel. "You're just letting all the pressure get to you! Your thinking with your heart and not your head, which shouldn't surprise us. Or those other hens, the Honorable Ms. Jordan and Ms. Holtzman, put it in your mind that you ladies should stick together..."

"Mr. Sandman!" Pemberton shouted, bolting to his feet. He walked over to Sandman and looked him square in the face, then whispered gruffly: _"Enough."_

After a moment, the New Jerseyite backed down and walked back to the other side of the room.

"Ms. Schuyler," Pemberton said in a honey-dipped accent, "I understand your concerns. I really do. Now, these gentlemen here are, in their own different ways, trying to appeal to your sensibility as a Republican, as a lawmaker, as a thoughtful, educated woman. And that's all well and good. But I think, if you think long and hard on it, you'll see that there isn't any reason why the President needs to be removed from office. He's already suffered enough with his name being dragged through the mud, his aides thrown in prison, hunted by the Press and his political enemies...what more could we possibly do to him?"

Mabel looked up and, despite herself, smiled at him. He was so warm and friendly in contrast to the other two, and he sounded so reasonable, she _wanted_ to believe him.

"Now, the final choice is yours," Pemberton said, waving his hand. "You must account for your conscience, and neither I nor my colleagues here will hold it against you." (At this, Sandman muttered something under his breath.) "Just keep in mind that your actions will reverberate throughout history. And let that be your guide."

Mabel looked up at Pemberton and smiled.

"Something to think about, at least," Rhodes muttered, tossing his pencil down on the desk. He stood up and reached across the desk, shaking Mabel's hand. Mabel nodded at the other congressmen and bowed out of the room, saying nothing, trembling with uncertainty, on the verge of tears. She waited until the door closed behind her, then she stumbled over to a chair and collapsed in it.

Could she still find the strength to do the right thing? Mabel wondered. _Was_ it the right thing? She didn't know any more! She knew from Grunkle Stan and Charlie and everything she'd ever read about history that yes, impeachment was what she needed to do. She knew from Blendin that it was something she _had_ to do, that Ariel Schuyler cast a vote for impeachment and therefore, Mabel Pines must as well.

But after the manhandling she'd just undergone, she no longer felt sure. They made her feel like a silly mush-for-brains, that she couldn't even defend her arguments against them, and the fact that she was a transplant from 2018 didn't help. And she didn't want to be wrong, to go down in history (even if it was only history that she and her brother and friends knew) as an idiot, something that she'd spent so much of her life trying to prove she wasn't.

Why couldn't _Wendy_ have been the Congresswoman? she asked. And where's Charlie when you need him? Let alone Dipper, the real person she trusted more than anyone. She had to face this all alone.

As she sat there, trying her best not to cry in public, to make herself look pathetic, she remembered something that both Pemberton and little Deborah from upstate New York had told her: _Follow your conscience_. And now, not for the last time, Mabel had to decide what that meant.

* * *

Wendy finally arrived back at the apartment building around 10:30. She made a mental note to herself never to visit DC or its immediate environs again, once she returned to 2018, or at least to make Dipper drive. That thought gave her a fleeting stab of mirth.

She rushed inside, bolting upstairs towards the telephone, watching as another young woman hung up and walked away. And as she approached it, she saw...

No. It couldn't be.

But it was. That man from the arms deal earlier. His arms were crossed, his face locked in a smug smile and a pistol clearly outlined beneath his coat.

"Miss Hurt, I thought I might find you here," he said, pulling the telephone out of the wall. "We need to have a chat."


	9. Chapter 9

**July 24th, 1974**

 **11:00 am**

Wendy felt a little calmer after discovering that Mr. Saito - actually Kenneth Yamato, according to his badge - was an FBI agent. Though that revelation also raised _more_ questions in her mind.

"Dude, if you're a Fed, why did you pull the phone out of the wall?" she demanded. "You scared the shit out of me."

"I dunno," he shrugged, gingerly plugging it back in. "I suppose I just have a flare for the dramatic. Or maybe I didn't want us to be interrupted while we talked."

"Well, we shouldn't stand around here where everyone can hear us," Wendy said, gesturing to one of the other tenants brushing past.

"Probably right," Saito agreed. "Let's grab something to eat. I know a diner a few blocks from here. After your little tiff with your, erm, comrade this morning, we'll have a lot to discuss. And I suppose for the fright, I owe you a sandwich."

* * *

Wendy picked around the edges of her roast beef sandwich, which might have been worse than those pre-made microwavable things her dad liked. The meat was fat and stringy, the bread stale, the fries soft and overcooked, the gravy congealing into glue-like stickiness. Saito ate a Reuben sandwich which looked only marginally better.

"Basically Ms. Hurt, you have a lot to answer for," Saito said between mouthfuls of corned beef. "We've been watching you since 1971 and we haven't liked what we've seen. All this radical talk, buying guns, planning to bomb buildings and cause a revolution. Very, very naughty."

"Hey man, don't talk to me like I'm a little kid," Wendy said, taking a long sip of Coke to clear the disgusting salt-and-fat taste from her mouth. "I want out of this as much as you want to stop it."

"That's what I gathered from your fight with Mr. Lieberman this morning," Saito said. "Unfortunately your little outburst, as well-intentioned as it no doubt was, couldn't have been worse timed. We were planning to bust you and your partner at our later meaning."

"Wait, how would you know that you weren't going to sell everything this morning?"

"Are you kidding? Idiots like Dirk Lieberman don't know how to sell shit. I assume you don't mind my language."

"No man, the last thing I'm going to bitch you out about is cursing," she said, waving her hand.

"Good. These two-bit street radicals like to say things like money is no object, and that's true for the really high-end toughs like Weatherman or the Red Brigades over in Europe. They'll buy anything for just about any price because they don't care - they think revolution is a real possibility, they'll rob banks and kidnap corporate heirs and all that jazz if they need some scratch. They're kooks and screw-ups and wannabe commissars, but they're sincere, and they know what they're doing. Much as I hate them, in a strange way I respect that.

"But the folks you're mixed up with are real amateurs. They know the talk, they know the imagery, they know the swagger but they aren't willing to do much more than talk and occasionally pull a gun on someone when they get pissed. I knew when Mr. Lieberman turned that Schmeisser on me, ignoring that it wasn't even loaded, perfectly well who I was dealing with. And notice he didn't try to haggle over the price for the AR-15s. Now what I said about their availability is true, but you can purchase one of those things for $200, $300 if you know where to get them. I said three times that and he didn't bat an eye. So now, he's going to buy some overpriced World War II merchandise for money that would be better spent on bombs or fake passports."

"Well man, you're the expert," Wendy said. "But they seemed pretty sincere to me. I mean, they were talking about blowing up the Capitol building this morning and they looked like they had enough explosives to do it."

"Weatherman's already bombed the Capitol," Saito said. "They blew up a toilet, a major blow to the American capitalist empire no doubt. But they actually knew what they were doing. No offense, but I don't think the dipshits you're working with could blow up a firecracker."

"Well, Chandler Monahan blew up some kid at college, right?" Wendy replied.

"True, but that's not exactly the same," Saito responded. "You know how much dynamite it would take to actually destroy the Capitol? About half of what's used by all the mining companies in America each year. Plus getting past security with all that would take some doing..."

"Look man, I'm just telling you what they were talking about," Wendy said curtly. She picked up a fry, nibbled it, then spit it across the table. "This food is vile."

Saito laughed. "Well, at least you're not paying for it." He waited until a waitress walking past, shooting them a disapproving glare.

"Anyway, they were talking about getting some nuclear material to help blow up the Capitol," Wendy said.

"Yes, we heard that," Saito said dismissively. "We've tapped telephones at all of your hangouts, you know. They were talking with those Gleeful clowns, as I recall, or someone representing them. Now what do you think a bunch of kooks like that and a bunch of radicals like you would have in common, anyway?"

Wendy sat back thoughtfully. That had also occurred to her, and she didn't have an answer.

"I don't think you're an actual threat," Saito clarified, "just a bunch of second-rate punks with bigger delusions than most. We were waiting to move until we had something to pin on you. The new Attorney General is leery about authorizing arrests of leftists after the abuses in the past, and we were hoping that our little transaction would have given us an excuse."

"Why are you telling me this, dude?" Wendy demanded. "Like, you're blowing your cover. And you don't seem like you're about to arrest me for anything, so, what gives?"

"Let's say I want to offer you a deal," Saito said, stealing a fry off Wendy's plate. Wendy arched her eyebrow, waiting for the shoe to drop.

"The wonderful thing about working for the Bureau is that we can conjure all kinds of charges against you, even if there isn't an imminent threat. Conspiracy for one, assisting a fugitive for another, then there's obtaining illegal explosives without a license - all crimes under Federal, state and local law. Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms would have something to say about your buying machine guns off the street, too, though I suppose your attorney could argue entrapment. What really interests me, though, is you. Because of your connection to Richard Anderson at the White House."

And **there** it was. Wendy felt an instant stab of fear for Dipper.

"What's that?" she asked, as casually as she could, though her hands were trembling.

"Mr. Anderson has been working with the Church of Revelations to relieve IRS pressure on the Church in exchange for their supporting the President," Saito said. "A matter of small importance, since you and I both know that kind of influence peddling happens all the time in DC. What does interest me, though, is his connection to you. A White House staffer connected both with a wacko cult and a terrorist group. A very strange pairing."

"Dip...Rick has nothing to do with us." Wendy caught herself at the last moment. Though given how quick and perfunctory their briefing, how could she be sure?

"Perhaps not," Saito conceded. "But **it** is a remarkable coincidence, to be sure. And at the very least, interfering with IRS business is obstruction of justice."

Wendy envisioned herself and Dipper rotting in a jail cell, here in 1974, unable to stop and act while the world came to an end. He'd trapped her, even more than he knew, and there wasn't any way out. So she fixed Saito with an angry, determined stare to save face, and said:

"Look man, you've got me. Whatever these dudes are up to, I know I'm in over my head, and I want out. Whatever you need me to do, as long as it doesn't hurt me or Rick."

Saito leaned back, smiling with satisfaction (and perhaps, Wendy felt, more than a hint of sadistic relish) but saying nothing. After a moment, Wendy realized he wasn't going to respond, so she asked again, less firmly, her voice and jaw quavering ever-so-slightly:

"So, what do you want from me?"

* * *

"So Rhodes put you alone in a room with Wiggins and Sandman and they badgered and insulted you for being a woman and holding an opinion contrary to theirs?" Barbara Jordan asked Mabel. "I can't say I'm surprised, but I am disgusted."

Mabel still felt a little rattled from her run-in with the Party leadership, still felt unsure of herself. So she was delighted to find Barbara Jordan (whom she recognized from earlier) and Liz Holtzman (whom she didn't yet know) sitting in the Capitol Cafe, drinking coffee and trying to let off steam before their big event. Holtzman had a yellow notepad filled with scrawls and scribbles, while Jordan seemed more comfortably preoccupied with her drink.

"There are only sixteen of us in the House and they treat us like dogs," Jordan continued. "I don't care if you're Democrat or Republican, that sort of abuse should be unacceptable."

"At least they didn't ask her to fetch them coffee," Holtzman spit, recalling one of her earliest memories from Congress.

"Blessings for small things," Jordan said.

"It's not just that," Mabel confided. "They just made me feel so little...so dumb. Like I didn't belong there."

"Honey, that's always how it's gonna be," Jordan told her. "They'll only act like they respect you when you're doing what they want. Show a hint of independence, a hint of your own brain and you're just another uppity bitch who needs to shut up."

"I'm Jewish," Holtzman offered, "and Barbara is...well. So we also have _that_ against us."

Mabel bit her lip in excitement, wanting to blurt out excitement over their shared heritage. But she realized that Ariel Schuyler, in all certainty, wasn't Jewish.

"Until now I've never thought of you having these problems," Jordan said. "Certainly this is just about the first time in the past four months that we've exchanged more than a few words. They must have really rattled you."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," Mabel said, realizing how little she knew about the woman she was impersonating. "But I heard you earlier outside my office earlier and I thought, here's somebody who's not gonna let some jerks push her around! And I dunno, maybe I needed some support."

"I've seen you speak, you are quite adept at it," Jordan told her. "For someone in her early 30s, you are very polished and smart and poised." She didn't add the derisive thought she'd often shared with other Democrats in private: _like a wind-up doll_.

"Are we sure that impeachment is right?" Mabel asked again, looking awkwardly at her feet. "I mean, everything I've read and heard over the past few...months tells me that yeah, we need to do it. But how can I be sure? What if I make a mistake? Don't you have doubts?"

"Oh, **I** have no doubt that it is," Jordan told her. "And neither does Liz. But we aren't going to tell you how to vote. That's not our job, that's between you, God and the voters in your district."

"Just remember Ariel, it doesn't matter what Wiggins and Sandman tell you," Holtzman said, scribbling something else on her notepad. "If you ask me, they're a bunch of coarse jerks who know they've lashed themselves to a sinking ship, and they're taking it out on the rest of us. You're wavering, you're a woman, and you're a Republican, so you're an easy target in triplicate. Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing you rattled."

Mabel sat back and smiled, suddenly feeling relieved and comfortable. Talking to other women in something like her predicament made her feel a lot better. If they could persevere, she could.

"Oh hello, Ms. Schuyler," a familiar, courtly voice came over her shoulder. She turned and saw Oliver Pemberton approaching.

"Speak of the Devil and he appears," Jordan said, averting her gaze.

"Ms. Jordan, as always you are a delight," Pemberton said with a little mock bow. "And Ms. Holtzman, I see you are working that Jewish brain of yours double-time."

"I see, Mr. Pemberton, that you are again running that charming Southern mouth of yours," Holtzman replied, shooting him a death glare.

"Ariel, I'll leave you and these other ladies alone, but I wanted to apologize for my colleagues earlier. They're feeling very tense about this whole situation and they may well have said things they didn't mean."

Mabel looked to her colleagues for guidance, but they were silent, as if waiting for her to act. She wanted _so much_ to be agreeable, couldn't think of anything else, really, yet she also wanted to seem strong.

"Those gentlemen can apologize themselves," Mabel said in as haughty a voice as she could muster. "You however were a complete gentleman, and have nothing to apologize for."

Holtzman wrinkled her nose in disgust and rose her notepad over her face before she said anything.

"I should have stepped in earlier than I did," Pemberton said, ignoring the Democrat. "I hope you will accept my apology for that."

Mabel just nodded and smiled, not sure what else she could say.

"After all, we are all serving the people here, even if we disagree on how to do it," he said, placing a hand on Mabel's shoulder. "And I trust at the end of the day, you'll make the right decision."

As before, Mabel found him so agreeable, so fatherly, that she was tempted to give in and follow his advice. This time, though, she glanced down at his hand and saw...

A brass ring. With the double-cross and G. And she audibly gasped, pushing his hand away.

Mabel's colleagues leaned forward in their seats in surprise and confusion; Jordan looked like she was ready to tackle Pemberton. Pemberton followed Mabel's gaze and looked down at his hand, and instead of trying to hide it he simply smiled and chuckled.

"Bless you, Ms. Schuyler," he said, his voice now taking on a devilish tinge. "I will see you ladies tonight. Have a... _pleasant_ day."

And Mabel watched, in gape-mouthed shock, as Pemberton walked over to order a sandwich. Suddenly she was filled with a more familiar kind of dread, the kind that she always had when Evil drew near.

* * *

Dipper spent several minutes frantically trying to call Wendy back. But he kept getting dead air, or clicks, or an angry woman screaming at him in Yiddish. Eventually he decided that he'd have to make time during lunch to run home. He didn't especially care what his bosses would think, since he obviously wasn't accomplishing anything here. Mostly he was filling out paperwork, reviewing press releases and proofreading fake letters by fake Nixon supporters to send out to different newspapers. Rote, pointless, self-defeating busy work that accomplished nothing.

"Mr. Anderson," his assistant said, "there is a congresswoman on line two for you. Ariel Schuyler?"

 _Holy Moses, what timing!_ Dipper thought. "Put her through immediately," he said, a bit too eagerly.

"Mabel!" Dipper said in a frantic near-whisper. "Oh God, something's going wrong. Wendy left me a message that she's in trouble but I haven't been able to call her back."

"Well, that makes two of us," Mabel yelled into the phone, not caring how loud she was. "Dipper, there's all kinds of messed-up junk going on with the Gleefuls! First there were a bunch of them outside protesting, then...There's a Congressman here wearing their emblem thingy on a ring!"

"Wait, _what_?" Dipper said. "I just got a call from Charles Gleeful earlier today! Apparently Mr. Anderson has been helping them evade taxes or something like that. Man, for a weird little cult these guys seem to have their fingers in _everything_."

"Dip, I know there's something going on here," Mabel said. "Just don't know what. And I still haven't heard from Charlie! And it's all freaking me out. We need to get together and figure out what we're gonna do before this gets out of hand."

Dipper looked up and saw his assistant gesturing urgently. Dipper waived her away, signalling at the phone.

"Okay, okay," he told Mabel. "I'm getting off for lunch in an hour or two, maybe we can meet somewhere nearby. Lafayette Park, maybe?"

The assistant knocked urgently on his door frame. Annoyed, Dipper looked up and saw a tall, leather-faced man glaring at him from the hall. He stood there for a long, seemingly endless moment, ramrod straight and scary as hell, then turned on his heel and went into an office.

"Mabel, I have to go," Dipper said. "Something's come up."

"But Dip-"

"We'll talk later." And Dipper hung up. He rushed out of the office and joined a small trickle of aides and staffers, all looking terrified, filing towards the office where the Tall Man had entered, a Secret Service agent standing watch at the door. On his way, Dipper bumped into Chuck Keefer.

"Hey Rick," he muttered under his breath, his earlier cheerfulness turned to dread. "As if today weren't fun enough already. This is like working in the _Fuhrerbunker_ or something, isn't it?"

"What's going on now?" Dipper asked.

"I dunno, but it can't be good," Keefer said. "Looks like General Haig is on the warpath."


	10. Chapter 10

**July 24th, 1974**

 **11:45 am**

Dipper filed into the Roosevelt Room along with at least a dozen other anxious aides. All men, and all white men at that, Dipper couldn't help noticing as he sat down, all in their thirties with crew cuts or comb-overs, young men grown prematurely old in service of a monster.

"Must be serious business if the General's coming down here to chew us out in person," Chuck Keefer whispered into Dipper's ear. He assumed that Chuck meant the intimidating fellow standing at the head of the table, wearing a gray suit and a stern, humorless expression.

The doors slammed shut and General Haig threw a file folder down on the table. Dipper recoiled as if he'd been slapped in the face.

"This morning, I received a phone call from Jack Anderson asking me if I've heard the latest bit of scuttlebutt," Haig began, his voice eerily even and calm. "Apparently there are rumors floating around, sourced to "White House staff members," that there is a contingency plan circulating around the National Security Council and the White House for the President to use military force to remain in power in case of impeachment or indictment. When I heard this I laughed it off, thought Jack was pulling my leg or running with some bullshit smear to make us look bad. Then I received a similar call from Mary McGrory a few minutes later. Then Helen Thomas. Someone from Sam Donaldson's office with ABC. The whole fucking White House press corps seems to know about it. Which is news to me, because I hadn't heard about it myself.

"I asked Secretary Kissinger and a few others at NSC about this, and evidently they thought I was referring to an old plan called GIDEON ONE or SERAPH from the early days of the Administration. Now, I distinctly remember destroying all copies of that plan in July 1970 when I worked for Dr. Kissinger and no one on the NSC still had a copy. Until I practically beat it out of a mid-level researcher who told me tearfully they'd encountered the plan and told one of their friends in the Communications Office about it."

Haig began circling around the table, shark-like, as he spoke. Dipper thought he resembled a drill sergeant intimidating his troops, which would be appropriate.

"How many times have we told you over the past five years? The press is the enemy! Now more than ever!" Now Haig started raising his voice, though it was a strangely calm, focused anger that seemed more for effect than genuine rage. "We've got enough shit stacking up in my office _and_ yours _and_ the President's without garbage like this being tracked in. Now, I wanna know who of you received the information about this file and who leaked it. You can tell me right now or you can tell Ken Clawson later, it doesn't matter to me. Either way, you're done here. Now you confess today and you'll be quietly dismissed, or we figure it out ourselves and you'll be brought up on charges of possessing and leaking classified material."

As Haig wound up his circuit, stationing himself back at the head of the table, he looked and saw the aides petrified. Took a moment to savor the effect, perhaps waiting, or expecting, for someone to confess. Then he clapped his hands together and turned away.

"Now, I'm headed out to San Clemente to see the President," Haig said quietly. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. Think about what I said, and remember that we all work for the President, not the other way around. You have a duty higher than getting your name in the paper or looking good as everyone else goes down. If you can't remember that, well, you can fuck right off into prison."

Suddenly he snatched the folder off the table, gestured to an aide standing along the wall to open the door, and they exited, with all the communications aides instinctively springing to their feet as he left. Then stood around awkwardly, unsure how to react.

"Jesus Christ," someone muttered.

"Think anybody's gonna confess after _that_?" another aide said.

"Not if they wanna keep their head," some mumbled. And slowly they started filing out, still staggered with terror and dread as they returned to their desks.

Except Dipper. Where everyone else was terrified, his curiosity was naturally piqued. If only there were some way to get a hold of that file, and that plan, it might provide the key to everything...

* * *

Mabel, Congresswoman that she was, couldn't spend very long waiting for Dipper to call back. Nor could she spent much time puzzling over the implications of Oliver Pemberton being one of the Gleefuls. Instead she found herself in a whirlwind of legislative meetings and boring staff conferences that she struggled to follow, or care about.

The first involved an Agriculture Bill designed to give appropriations to small farmers in rural America. Mabel liked the idea of small farmers but blanched when one of the bill's proponents, a rotund Republican from Kansas, made a coarse joke about getting rich off the blood and meat of pigs. After that, Mabel notched a check mark in her mind: forget what Ariel Schuyler would do, vote _against_ this bill.

Then came a one-on-one meeting with Peter Rodino, the harried chairman of the Judiciary Committee, who was meeting with each member to give them a pep talk about doing their constitutional duty. His words were platitudes about "upholding our system" and that "this is a grave responsibility for all of us," but Mabel was more moved by Rodino's haggard, tired and terrified look. He showed the weight of months of investigating, press scrutiny, arguments with colleagues and staff and friends and family, and most of all the judgment of history.

"My God, if we do this this will only be the second time we've impeached a President," Rodino said, more to himself, it seemed, than to Mabel. "We'd better be damn sure we get this right."

"Don't worry, Pete," Mabel said, leaning over and patting him on the back. "We've got this. After all the work we've put into everything, there's no way we're gonna mess it up."

Rodino looked confused by her informality, but the encouragement seemed to improve his mood.

"Thanks Ariel," he said, sighing. "You're more optimistic than me, but what the Hell, optimism never hurt. Glad to see some of us are keeping a level head about this whole thing."

Mabel had a better time meeting with constituents from New York who wanted discuss construction of a highway overpass at a town called Schermer, right outside Troy. Without the weight and burden of History weighing upon her, she could be more Mabel than Ariel.

"We need this overpass because it's impossible to travel," a squat, bow tie-wearing businessman named Mr. Pomeroy, explained. "Right now, if you want to get into town you need to get on the highway, drive ten miles down the road past Troy, then drive down two dirt roads until you connect into town."

"It would make all the difference in the world if you could take care of this for us," his wife, wearing a blue suit and with graying red hair, added.

"That _does_ sound like a big problem," Mabel said.

"We know there's a big infrastructure bill coming through the House in two weeks," Mr. Pomeroy said. "If you could at least put in a good word for us..."

"How much do you need?" Mabel asked.

"Maybe $25,000, $50,000 at most," Mr. Pomeroy said, playing nervously with his bow tie.

Mabel thought this through for a moment, then smiled. "How about $100,000?"

You'd have thought Mabel offered the Pomeroys a gold-plated Cadillac in every garage with their stunned reactions.

"That seems a little steep..." Mr. Pomeroy muttered, not sure he'd heard right.

"Could you _really_ do that?" Mrs. Pomeroy asked, eyes widening in disbelief.

"Sure thing!" Mabel said, though she had only the barest idea of how to achieve it. "By this time next month, you'll have enough money to build ten bridges, and a new school, **and** a new courthouse!"

"God bless you, ma'am!" Mr. Pomeroy said excitedly, shaking her hand.

"You don't know this would mean to our little town," his wife added, fighting back tears.

"No sweat! That's the Schuyler difference!" Mabel said with a wink.

* * *

"Thanks for taking care of this, Rick," Ken Clawson said to Dipper, rushing out of his office. "Al never likes to do this kind of dirty work himself, if he can avoid it. Not since the Saturday Night Massacre. And since the President isn't leaving San Clemente, they're expecting me and Ron out there later this afternoon. Besides, you can probably keep a more even temper over this than I can."

"No problem, sir," Dipper said with an unctuous smile. "They don't call me Dr. Funtimes for nothing."

"You'd think after five years people would know not to leak this kind of shit," Clawson growled, throwing on his coat. "This is an Ellsberg-level security breach. I'll bet it's one of Henry's Harvard Hebrew boys mucking things up again. Or Herr Doktor himself trying to make good with his friends the press."

"Why would he do that?" Dipper asked, fighting the urge to slap him over that antisemitic fillip.

"They know the way the wind blows," Clawson muttered. "The White House is under siege and falling apart and acting insane, and they need cool, calm rational Henry Kissinger to swoop in and save the day. Superkraut, or Super K, whatever it is they call him. Of course, I can think of another K..."

"All right, all right," Dipper interrupted, not bothering to hide his escalating irritation. "Don't worry about it, man...I mean, sir, I'll find out who did it."

"Good man," Clawson said, shaking Dipper's hand. "Well, I'm off. Good luck and call me once you find something. At least it will be sunny out in California..."

And so Dipper took a seat at Clawson's desk, looking at a directory for the Communications Department. He figured that he was sufficiently low-level enough that he could talk to colleagues with intimidating them overmuch, that maybe they'd break down or confide something that they wouldn't with one of their stern bosses. And maybe, just _maybe_ , they actually knew something about this plan or possibly even had a copy of it. And wouldn't that be something?

It was a stretch. But Dipper didn't have much to go on, and until he could talk to Mabel or Wendy or Charlie face-to-face, it was better than nothing.

* * *

Mabel couldn't enjoy being helpful for long, for she soon found herself swept into another impeachment meeting. This time it was with the waverers, the uncertain, the swing votes - the seven Republicans whose conscience wrestled with Party loyalty, three Southern Democrats who were more conservative than Nixon himself. Mabel listened to them debating the specific articles of impeachment, along with a dour attorney named John Doar. So far as she could follow the argument, her colleagues were concerned that they, or others, couldn't or wouldn't vote

"I'm not convinced about this one," one of the Southern Democrats, an Alabamian named Walter Flowers, drawled. "You aren't gonna convince many people in my District, or Jim's, or any of ours that bombing Cambodia was an impeachable offense. Some of the people who voted me are angry that we didn't turn the whole continent of Asian into a parking lot."

"I agree with Walter," Jim Mann, South Carolinian, said. "And even if I didn't have that reservation, I'm not convinced it wasn't the right thing to do."

"This isn't the time or the place to refight Vietnam," one of the Republicans, a young New Yorker named Hamilton Fish, interrupted. "I think it's more important whether we can get the votes for it. We need to get as many people to support this as we can."

"I think we can bring Rodino around," Flowers said. "This was all Drinan's idea, wasn't it? Shows up every day in his damned priest's collar proclaiming the President and the war a blasphemy against God. Well, that's a wonderful argument that sure won't play anywhere outside of your conscience."

"So you're saying you'll support the other articles of impeachment if we strike this one, and the one about income tax?" Doar said, making careful notes of their conversation.

"I don't think it's our business whether he pays his taxes or not," Mann said. "It's not something I'd consider admirable but neither is it our purview."

"Let the IRS handle that," Fish agreed.

Mabel looked around silently, twiddling her thumbs, swinging her legs, observing the proceedings like a particularly dull day of school. As the men around her argued and parsed legalese (neither Barbara nor Liz, her newest pals, were in the meeting as they had no doubt about their own votes), she started thinking again of her brother, trapped in the White House, doing God knows what. And who knows about Wendy, out there with some bomb-throwing meanies? And Charlie...

Charlie. She hadn't heard anything from Charlie, and she couldn't help feeling a pang of worry about what her second-favorite dork was up to right now. At least she knew where Dipper was.

"Well Ariel," one of the Republicans said. "Anything you wish to contribute?"

Mabel felt all twenty-two eyes in the room focused on her, again felt the embarrassment of not being taken seriously. She decided to wing it.

"I think we should only adopt the articles that are sure to pass," Mabel said with an authoritativeness that surprised her. "If we don't pass some articles, I mean, that'll make us look bad, right? So only adopt the ones that everyone likes."

It was a vague argument, but everyone seemed satisfied and turned back to their own argument.

"The Democrats are gonna make us vote on these anyway," a bald Virginian named Caldwell Butler grumbled. "We don't have to adopt all of them in committee."

"Abuse of power is what we can make stick," Fish said. "Breaking the people's trust is something that we can argue. The Cambodia charge is a policy disagreement and the fifth article is nothing we need concern ourselves with. I'm with Ms. Schuyler, trying to ram those through will just make them scream witch hunt." Mabel exchanged a brief smile with Fish, glad that someone at least thought she made sense.

"They'll scream that anyway," Jim Mann said after a sneeze. "After everything that's come out, they still think this is partisan. Partisan this, partisan that, blah blah blah. Well, bullshit. If it were partisan we wouldn't have seven Republicans in the room with us. I wager that the American people as a whole aren't so stupid."

Another Republican, Tom Railsback from Illinois, dropped his head and gave out a long, long sigh.

"If this were partisan, I'd be the first one fighting it," Railsback said. "But my God, at this point...the tapes, the testimony, the covering up, the acting like a tinpot dictator...This is a President out of control. A President who thinks he's above the law. Shouldn't matter what your allegiance is, that should damn well bother anybody."

A long, heavy silence hung over the room as the weight of his words sunk in.

"Well, we've talked and thought about this plenty," Hamilton Fish said. "Don't think there's much more to say, except perhaps a prayer to God that we're doing right."

"Hear, hear," a few of his colleagues said.

"I'll pass your recommendations on to the Chairman," Doar said quietly, putting away a pen and scooping up his notepad. "We all know what's at stake at this point, no need to belabor the obvious. Me, I'm going to grab a hot dog outside before the world falls down around us."

And the meeting broke up, with the usual smatterings of pleasantries and small talk from the different participants as they filed out of the room. Mabel sought out Hamilton Fish, who was the last man to leave the room.

"Hi," Mabel said with a cheerful smile. "Thanks for what you said back there."

"What's that?" Fish said, distracted. "Oh, no problem."

"Sometimes I'm in these meetings and I think nobody pays attention to me," Mabel confided. "I don't know if it's because I'm a woman, or..."

"Probably, this is still a Boy's Club," Fish said with a matter-of-fact air. "But us New Yorkers have to stick together, right?"

"Right!" Mabel beamed. "Oh, that reminds me, some of my constituents want money for a highway overpass. They were saying like $25,000 or something like that, but I told them $100,000 sounded better. Any way to work something out?"

"Well, I'm on that bill's steering committee," Fish said. "I could probably twist a few arms and slip in an earmark for you. Of course, I'm trying to add some money for highway repairs up near Rochester. We're all against spending except when it's our own district."

"If we aren't here to help people, than why are we here?" Mabel asked plaintively. Fish laughed, then realized she was serious.

"Sometimes I wonder," Fish said thoughtfully. "Well, I'm meeting with those guys this afternoon, I'll put in a word for you." He patted Mabel on the shoulder and smiled, then walked out.

Mabel stepped outside, buzzing with excitement and accomplishment.

"Yes! _Allocation made_!" Mabel pumped her fist in triumph and leaped in the air. She caught the attention of a few of her disbelieving colleagues, but didn't care about it for the moment. Even in Congress, sometimes it took Mabel Pines to get things done!

* * *

To Dipper's surprise, it only took him three interviews before he found the leaker. It was a blond, nebbish young man with coke-bottle glasses and the Runyonesque name of Dylan Rottgut, who broke down crying after a few questions.

"Oh God, I don't want everyone to think I'm a traitor," he said through tears. "Or a leaker, or an Ellsberg, or whatever Ken and the General were saying. No, all I did was listen to my friend Bob on the NSC."

"Why did you call reporters?" Dipper asked. His voice showed marked sympathy, encouraging Dylan to open up.

"It scared the shit out of me," Dylan confessed, choking back a sob. Dipper handed him a tissue and he wiped off his eyes. "I mean, I've only been in the White House since last May, I know things were a lot worse in '69 and '70 with all the protests and the war and all that. But my God, just the thought that a President or anyone would think that was even a plan worth considering..."

"Do you...remember anything specific about the plan?" Dipper asked gently.

"It was terrifying stuff," Dylan said. "Basically in case of an attack on the Capitol or the White House which would lead to a declaration of martial law. Soldiers would occupy DC, all government business suspended, Congress dissolved...scary, scary, awful nightmare things. Hitler things. Like _Seven Days in May_ or something like that - it sounded reasonable, but there wasn't any safeguard against abuse. It made me think of Chile, for God's sake, and I **know** the United States of America isn't Chile!" Though his despairing, baleful look evinced he was no longer so sure.

Dipper leaned forward, fascinated and a bit scared himself.

"They had a form declaring a State of Insurrection ready," Dylan continued. "It was originally written by one of Johnson's Deputy Attorneys General right after the Detroit Riots. It's pre-signed by John Mitchell, all filled out except for the city, the date and the President's signature. It was for riots and things like that, but slightly tweaked to fit the expected circumstances."

"Well, the General said that it was an old plan from a few years ago," Dipper said, not sure if he was probing or trying to restrain himself from leaping to catastrophic conclusions. "Around the time of...all those protests and things." (Dipper cursed his limited knowledge of the period, which only let him parrot what his subject had just said; fortunately, Dylan was too rattled to notice. "As bad as things are now, they're still different."

"Right," Dylan said. "That was what I thought at first. But then Bob showed me the copy of the form he had. It had...been updated July 22nd, 1974. With a new form attached with William Saxbe's signature appended." The current Attorney General.

And this made Dipper's blood run cold; he felt his face flush, hoping that Dylan, the poor little bureaucrat who'd wandered into a nightmare, wouldn't notice.

"You were right to tell me this," Dipper assured him. "Any chance I can take a look at it?"

"I'm not sure," Dylan said, eyeing him warily.

"Come on, Dylan," Dipper said. "I don't give a damn what the General says. There are things more important than personal loyalty. Democracy and the world's continued existence are two of them. I mean, even **I** know that."

"What do you mean by, even I know that?" Dylan asked quizzically. Dipper cursed himself for not yet breaking the habit of thinking out loud.

"Never mind," he assured his subordinate. "If this document exists, we need to make sure that we have a copy, make sure it's safe before it gets trashed. I mean, I don't want soldiers taking over the government any more than you do."

"Well, I don't have it any more," Dylan muttered. "But I know where it might be."

* * *

In an FBI office across town, an agent started playing the latest tape from a phone tap installed within the past few days. He overheard the voices of Rick Anderson, White House aide, and Ariel Schuyler, Congresswoman (R-NY), chatting on the phone about the Gleefuls in cryptic terms, using names or code phrases he didn't recognize. He did, however, make sure to note the connection as he listened:

 **CHURCH OF R/GLEEFULS - WHITE HOUSE (ANDERSON) - CONGRESS (SCHUYLER)?**

 **POSSIBLE CONNECTION RE: RADICAL GROUP IN DC - C. HURT/C. MONAHAN/B. DIERDORF/ETC. - NEED MORE DEFINITIVE PROOF**

 **AGENT #46 (TANAKA/"SAITO") INVESTIGATING HURT/MONAHAN GROUP**

 **PHRASES UNRECOGNIZED: MABEL/DIPPER/CHARLIE/WENDY (names? aliases? code words?)**

 **MATCH AGAINST OTHER TAPS**

After completing his notes, he sealed the tape in its compartment and placed it in a small box alongside a dozen other tapes from several other taps over the past few days. He still couldn't prove anything, but something big was happening.

 _Author's note: Stay tuned for a special bonus chapter later tonight!_


	11. The View from San Clemente

**July 24th, 1974**

 **San Clemente, CA**

 **9:30 AM PST**

The President still hadn't fully awaken at that hour. He'd gone to bed the night before after watching some dreadful John Wayne movie with Pat, Julie and David, and spent another hour reading his favorite Disraeli biography and drinking in his study. Now he was feeling the full effects of that decision, and even the amenities wonderments of the Western White House, with his beautiful view overlooking the Pacific, its swimming pools and guest rooms, couldn't relieve his throbbing headache or all-consuming stress.

There was once a time when Richard Nixon could fight through even the worst hangover to make bold, important decisions. Nowadays the energy had drained from him, had aged him more in a year than he had done in the past decade. For all the defeats and frustrations and divisions of that time span, nothing seemed so soul-crushing as this little pissant break-in and the press, the Congress, everybody deciding that Nixon was their enemy and needed to pay, not for any reason other than the fact of his being Richard Nixon.

He knew that Congress was debating impeachment that day. He had made some phone calls to Congressmen who were supporting him, to a few Republicans and conservative Democrats who were wavering. He had even tried again with George Wallace, who had long since ceased being a grisly bugbear and now was Nixon's most loyal ally, but who was refusing to twist any arms on the Committee. Other than that, he didn't want to be in DC for the vote; his excuse for staying out here was some tedious economic summit in Sacramento on the 25th, though really it was to hide and plot and scheme, shielded from the world by flacks and aides and lawyers who, even in this idyllic locale, evinced a president under siege.

In his mind he raged against the usual suspects who'd bedeviled him since his first congressional run. The Left, the liberals, the Jews, the media, the Eastern Establishment - still his enemies, never able, even for a moment, to give him a break, who still couldn't even say his name without curling their tongues in disgust. He raged against his staff members who had turned on him. The Congress whom he'd never liked, never gotten along with, who now stood prepared to stab him in the back. And for what? One of the most pathetic, silly, shit-ass crimes ever committed. After all that FDR and JFK and LBJ and all those other acronymed Presidents got away with, RMN being torn from office on these pathetic charges seemed grotesquely disproportionate at best, a show trial at worst.

He wondered how much longer the System would hold. His advisers were saying that impeachment was inevitable, though they could still fight in the Senate. But would the fight be worth it? Even if he won there, and there was no guarantee, it would rend the country and further cripple his presidency. He might survive in name, but his administration would be ruined. And some were even whispering that, to avoid that dreadful end, for the good of the country, to resign.

 _Fuck that._

"For the good of the country" my phlebitic, Republican ass. It was for the good of people who'd hated Nixon since he beat Jerry Voorhis and jailed Alger Hiss and moped on TV about his daughter's fucking dog and dared prove the liberals _wrong_. The good of the State Department Jews and bureaucrats in the CIA and the FBI who hated his guts for not kowtowing to them. The good of the reporters who wanted to hound him from office. The good of weak-willed, inbred blue bloods everywhere who hated men like him who had to work for a living, who had to be smart and frugal and cunning to achieve success rather than inherit it, who just wanted to be rich and get nice mentions in the newspapers and the history books while shitting on the country.

The good of aides and attorneys and supporters and cabinet secretaries (his mind flashed to Henry Kissinger, his evil genius, his supplicating, boot-locking aide, his Jew boy, his confessor - also his hated rival, his whinging narcissist, his inveterate leaker and monstrous, world-historical megalomaniac) who wanted to emerge from this mess with their reputations intact, even if it meant pissing on their President.

Only his family, especially his daughter Julie, really wanted him to fight at this point. There were still tapes that Congress and the courts and the public hadn't heard that might make things worse, if they got out. Though at this point, he didn't see what was possible.

 _The System cannot hold,_ he thought, paraphrasing a line from Yeats.

He knew that even his cabinet, even Kissinger ( **especially** him, the Kraut bastard), even Jim Schlesinger at the Pentagon, were already making moves to disarm him in case of crisis. To make sure he didn't do anything mad or dastardly at a moment of weakness. He knew as much from Al Haig, who not only whispered these things in his ear but implied they were for his own good, the good of the country. ( _Fuck_ that.) He worried that America would fall into anarchy in his absence, that the Presidency would be degraded, the System would "work" only to purge an irritant from itself, only to commit suicide in the process.

Fortunately, Nixon men still existed, and not just Haldeman and Ehrlichman and Colson in exile or prison, either. And some of them were on the National Security Council. Some of them knew that there were still emergency plans from years before, when the Moratorium and Cambodia and Kent State had brought the country to a knife's edge of madness, when it seemed a reasonable response and not a President's private madness. Some of them knew how to update it without Kissinger or his friends noticing, how to forge a weak, lily-livered Attorney General's signature, how to neutralize Congress and the Courts with a few shadowy friends accountable to no one but their own madness.

How, in short, to do an end-run around the System and the Establishment and ensure that Right - that Richard Milhous Nixon - would prevail.

He'd always loved the big play, the bold move, whatever form it took: raining death on Indochina, nuclear brinkmanship against the Soviets, staring down protesters, shaking up the economy, visiting China, making the world realize that the madman, Richard Nixon was in charge. And this, he assured himself, would be the biggest, boldest move of all.

 _The System cannot hold_ , he thought again, taking in the warm, sunny morning overtaking his estate.

 _And I must fix it. I must rescue the country from itself._

* * *

 _Author's note: And with this glimpse into Tricky Dick's mind, I'll take another break for a few days - more project plus the holiday - before resuming. Thanks again for your reads, reviews and support (I know this story is a slow burn, but don't worry - there will be a payoff), and for my American readers, Happy Thanksgiving!_


	12. Chapter 12

**July 24th, 1974**

 **Washington, DC**

 **1:00 pm**

Dipper wasn't entirely sure he trusted Dylan - he'd only known the guy for about an hour, after all, and Dipper found it hard to trust _anyone_ he didn't know intimately. At this point, though, he didn't seem to have much choice - he had less than 24 hours to carry out his mission, and Dylan seemed so shell-shocked and scared of his own shadow that Dipper couldn't help following him. Unless his act was some kind of deep cover con by Haig or the President or the Gleefuls (and at this point, he couldn't rule that out)...

He had to wait while Dylan slipped downstairs to the West Basement, where the NSC staffers worked. After about ten minutes, Dylan came up with a key to a locker at Union Station.

Dipper managed to bow out pleading urgent business, leaving a befuddled Chuck Keefer to continue the now-pointless staff interviews. Dipper and his accomplice took a cab down to the station, pushed through a swarm of impatient passengers and snap-happy tourists, and rushed over to the storage area.

"Locker 17's rented out under Rusty Shackleford," Dylan said, fumbling for the key. "It's an alias the NSC guys use when they're storing things like this off-site. Bob told me that he's used this locker for all kinds of stuff in the past."

"Might wanna change that," Dipper said nervously, watching the crowds moving around him. He heard a muzak cover of "Tomorrow Never Knows" start to play over the loudspeaker, occasionally drowned out by announcements and shouts from impatient people on the platform.

"Really hope it's in here," Dylan continued, ignoring Dipper's comments, feeding the wrong key into the lock. "Damn it! If it's not, well, I don't know if Bob's still in the White House or not. The way the General was talking earlier, sounds like he's already been sacked."

 _Click._ The locker creaked open. Dylan took a deep breath, hesitating before he looked inside.

"How did you get that key, anyway?" Dipper wondered. "I thought Bob had been fired."

Dylan shrugged. "Knew someone with another copy," he said mysteriously. And Dipper felt a stab of fear, wondering if the guy was really as hapless and innocent as he acted. Or if he was just another person in Washington trying to cover their ass. He'd believe either.

Dylan rifled through the locker, mostly filled with old books and a few nondescript items - a Polaroid camera, a box of tissues, some notebooks. Dipper saw someone move over his shoulder, turned his head, saw a man in a trenchcoat and fedora looking in his direction. Then he was distracted by the shouts of a conductor breaking up a fight on a train platform.

Finally, Dylan found and pulled out a large yellow envelope. He opened it, peeked inside and his eyes went wide.

"This is it," Dylan said, sealing it shut and handing it to Dipper, who took in his hand.

"Great," Dipper said. "Now, we need somewhere private to read this."

"I wouldn't suggest going back to the White House," Dylan said. "And my place...I dunno, I feel like everyone on the White House staff is being watched these days. I know a reading room in Alexandria we could try..."

As Dylan rambled nervously, Dipper looked back to see if the fedora man was still there. He wasn't, but his eyes lit upon another man reading a newspaper on a bench outside the ticket station. He felt Dipper staring at him and the two locked eyes for a long anxious moment.

Dipper had another idea, though he realized it was a big risk. He spotted a payphone across the way near a shop, then started fishing in his pockets for change.

A loud voice overheard announced the arrival of another train. Then a mellow Simon and Garfunkel song that Dipper vaguely recognized began over the loudspeaker. Children's laughter, the sound of a train pulling in.

"Do you have any change, man?" Dipper asked Dylan.

"I think so," Dylan muttered, absently searching his coat and pants. Dipper glanced back over his shoulder and saw Fedora Man at a different location, lighting a cigarette against a wall. Dipper felt another twinge of panic in his chest, watching a well-dressed older couple move in front of his watcher.

"I've got 75 cents," Dylan said, handing Dipper three quarters. "Sorry man, if I knew we'd making phone calls I woulda raided my desk drawer."

"That's fine," Dipper muttered, cupping his hand around the change. He would give just about anything for a cell phone right about now.

He walked over hurriedly to the phone, brushing past two little girls running away from their mother. Then he plunked the coins down into the phone and waited for a ring.

"Operator," someone said into the phone.

"Hello, this is Richard Anderson from the White House," he said into the telephone. "Could you please connect me to Congresswoman Schuyler? That's S-C-H-U-Y-L-E-R. From, ah, New York."

"One moment," the answer came, the voice drowned out by another announcement on the PA system.

Dipper looked around and saw Dylan still standing by the lockers self-consciously, cradling the folder against his chest.

 _You idiot,_ Dipper thought, _you couldn't be more conspicuous!_

Dipper was still on hold, then looked over and froze. He saw the Fedora Man again, with a uniformed police officer standing beside him. They were pointing in Dipper's general direction, and he felt gripped with panic.

Dipper spun his head around and saw Dylan spotting them, blanching in terror. He started to back away slowly.

"Mr. Anderson," the voice came back on the phone. "The Congresswoman is in a meeting right now. Could I leave-"

And the voice was drowned out by an announcement overhead:

"Dylan Stuyvesant, please report to Platform B. Dylan Stuyvesant, please report to Platform B."

Dipper gripped the phone receiver until his knuckles turned white. He saw Fedora Man again, starting towards him, with the officer in tow. Dipper looked over and saw Dylan, who shot his new friend one desperate, apologetic glance, then _dropped the envelope_ and took off running down the platform.

Dipper watched open-mouthed as the Fedora Man and the policeman bolted after Dylan.

Dipper hung up the phone and rushed across the platform, hoping he could beat anyone suspicious to the envelope...

"Mommy, someone dropped this," a little boy said, examining it curiously.

"Steve, that's not yours," his mother scolded. "We need to give this to a conductor or a ticket master..."

"Hey, you found my envelope!" Dipper said, shouting a little too loudly. "I've been looking everywhere for it..."

The little boy shot Dipper a curious, disbelieving look, clutching the envelope to his chest. But his mother grabbed it away from him.

"Thank you so much," Dipper gasped. "Sorry, I'm such a klutz sometimes...Really should know better."

"Happens to all of us," the mother said, handing it to Dipper. Dipper grabbed the envelope and put it in his coat, breathing a huge sigh of relief as he walked down the track.

A frantic, mustachioed man, in a conductor's uniform walked briskly the other way.

"Shit, did they say Platform B?" he asked to no one in particular. He spotted Dipper and turned the other way. "I heard my name, was it Platform B? Shit, and this was supposed to be my day off..."

"Dylan Stuyvesant?" Dipper asked, amazed. Then who the hell was _his_ Dylan?

"Yeah, Platform B," Dipper said, nodding dumbly. The conductor thanked him and moved on. Dipper looked past him and saw the man with the newspaper, looking over towards him and...taking notes? He was writing something.

Dipper started walking in a frantic daze, sure to hide the envelope under his arm, staring straight ahead. With his other hand he made sure that his emergency signaling device was within reach. Every step he expected to hear someone shout for him to stop or scream his name, to start walking towards him. He hoped he could reach a cab for the Capitol without meeting Dylan's fate.

Overhead, "A Horse With No Name" started playing on the music system. And Dipper found the familiar tune oddly comforting.

* * *

After an interminable ride in a cab smelling of cigar smoke and dripping with sleaze, after waiting for several long minutes in the Capitol foyer, Dipper spotted Mabel breaking away from a crowd of aides. She smiled broadly upon spotting her brother.

"Mr. Anderson," Mabel said, struggling to keep a damper on her excitement for formality's sake. "Please come right this way."

Dipper joined his twin, who looked almost as harried as him. They were silent as they walked back to Mabel's office, past teeming congressmen and aides and yet another Baruch Korff crazy heckling people not to vote for impeachment.

After they reached Mabel's office, she slammed the door shut and carefully locked it. Then she turned towards her twin brother, and the two of them gave each other a long, firm hug.

"Thank goodness you made it!" Mabel said. "This has been the craziest day I've had in...gosh, I don't know! One minute I'm having fun with constituents and talking to friendly people, the next minute some mean Republicans are shouting threats and insults in my ear."

"I don't think being a congressperson is supposed to be fun," Dipper chided her lightly. "But I get what you mean. I just got chewed out by the President's chief jerk, then watched one of my White House buddies get tracked down by police at a railroad station. _That_ was a barrel of laughs."

Mabel stared at him for a long, incredulous moment without blinking. Then she ushered for Dipper to sit down.

"But I do have _this_ ," Dipper said, throwing his envelope down on the table before sitting. Mabel examined it carefully.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Some kind of National Security Council plan," Dipper said. "It had something to do with declaring martial law and... well, let's take a look."

The Mystery Twins hunkered down, both anxious but silently glad that after a harrowing morning they were finally reunited.

Dipper started skimming. He didn't pick up on all the code words and military jargon, but what he could make out seemed to confirm his suspicions.

 **GIDEON I/SERAPH ONE**

 **ADOPTED PROVISIONALLY 15 OCTOBER 1969**

 **IN EVENT OF INTERNAL INSURRECTION AND UNREST IN THE CAPITAL, OR AN ATTACK ON CONGRESS OR THE WHITE HOUSE ( _this specific phrase was circled on Dipper's copy_ ), ALL MILITARY FORCES IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA WILL BE IMMEDIATELY DEPLOYED THROUGHOUT THE CAPITAL. MARTIAL LAW WILL BE DECLARED BY THE PRESIDENT OR ACTING PRESIDENT (ASSUMING ASSASSINATION OR INCAPACITY) AS AUTHORIZED BY EXECUTIVE ORDER 4457 (copy enclosed). **

**\- SAC, NATO AND ALLIED FORCES WILL IMMEDIATELY COMMENCE DEFCON 2 (FAST PACE) EXERCISE;**

 **\- IN CASE OF PROVOCATIVE ACTIONS BY THE SOVIET UNION OR OTHER FOREIGN POWERS, GIANT LANCE PROTOCOL WILL BE IMPLEMENTED;**

 **\- DUCK HOOK (PRUNING KNIFE) IMMEDIATELY EXECUTED; **

**\- NAVAL FORCES IN ATLANTIC AND PACIFIC EXECUTE PLANS CROSS AND SIDESHOW;**

And so on.

"What is all this?" Mabel asked.

"I'm not completely sure," Dipper admitted. "Some of these code words are beyond me...But it doesn't _sound_ good."

Dipper leafed through and saw signatures of the President, then-Defense Secretary Melvin Laird, General Wheeler of the Joint Chiefs and, of course, Dr. Kissinger, all of whom had approved the operation "in case of emergency."

"Holy Moses," Dipper muttered. He started leafing through the document, seeing diagrams, images and defense readiness reports, all heady stuff that was beyond him. Then the dread Executive Order Dylan had warned him about, which unlike the rest of the document rang out clear as day.

"We need someone who can interpret all this," Dipper said. "Maybe if Great Uncle Ford or Charlie were here...Mabel, you haven't heard from Charlie today, have you?"

Mabel shook her head forlornly. "And I'm scared, Dipper! All we've learned so far about the Gleefuls makes me think nothing good can possibly have happened."

"I know," Dipper said, putting a hand on his sister's shoulder. She looked about ready to cry.

"He'd be having so much fun meeting all these Congresspeople," Mabel rued. "This is his whole thing, you know? Nixon stuff! Impeachment and arguments about it and Congressional debates and..." She forced herself to stop.

"Have you heard from Wendy?" she asked her brother.

"She tried calling me at my office awhile ago," Dipper said. "But I didn't get any information from her, and couldn't get back in touch. Not sure I trust radical terrorist creeps any more than we do the Gleefuls."

The two siblings sat staring, helpless and terrified as they pondered the potential fates of their significant others.

"Well, on the plus side, I spent most of the morning approving fake letters of support for the President," Dipper said.

"What?" Mabel asked.

"Oh yeah, they're so insecure about their support that they have my staff writing and approving letters from phony supporters to send in to people," Dipper said. "Congressmen, newspapers, what have you. It's ridiculous but they're putting a lot of time and effort into it."

Mabel laughed. "I've gotten a few letters like that!" she laughed, reaching onto her desk. "It's hard to tell the crazies from the phonies," she admitted. She started reading one:

"Ms. Schuyler, My name is Rodney Davenport from Pittstown. I hope that you will not be voting to impeach the President. Besides the paucity of evidence against him, this country needs a firm, stable leader in this time of trouble. I am sure that you will not vote to harm this country and its system of government beyond repair."

"That reads like one of ours," Dipper said, shaking his head. "So formal and stiff, and look, it's even typewritten."

"Now this one, I don't know," Mabel said, pointing to another one. "It's written by hand, the ink is splotched, it's barely coherent, and look!" She grabbed its envelope and envelope and spilled out some shiny coins on her desk.

"Wonder what this means?" Mabel said.

Dipper looked and counted thirty thin dimes. "Thirty pieces of silver?" he guessed. Mabel shrugged.

"You're a Judas for betraying the President," Dipper explained. "Who, evidently, is like Jesus to this person. I'd say it's real."

Mabel crossed her arms and frowned. "Now that's just mean," she pouted.

"Don't take it personally," Dipper said. "Remember, it's not directed at you, Mabel Pines..."

"That doesn't help when I have to read it," she responded grumpily. Dipper nodded, remembering the antisemitic slurs he'd heard from various White House creeps all morning.

"What's _your_ morning been like?" he asked his sister. "I mean, besides being called a traitor and all?"

"Oh, arguing with old fuddy duddies," she said dismissively. "Getting ready for impeachment - it's really bringing me down trying to keep all the arguments straight. But I **did** manage to buy some of my constituents a new bridge!"

"Well, that's great!" Dipper assured her. "Maybe they'll name it after you!"

Mabel gasped. "Do you _really_ think so? Some little town in New York will have a Mabel Pines Memorial Bridge!?"

Dipper chuckled. "Remember, Mabel, you're not..."

"Mabel Pines went back in time and helped some people she didn't even know get a new bridge!" she waxed rhapsodic. "How virtuous is **that**? Take that, you stupid unicorns!"

Dipper enjoyed a laugh, releasing so much of the day's built up tension. Then he remembered Wendy, and felt fear and melancholy sweep back over him.

At that moment, the telephone rang.

"Ariel Schuyler, the Can-Do Congresswoman, at your service!" Mabel shouted into the phone. Dipper did a discreet facepalm. Then he watched her sister's face drop into a shocked stare. She gestured at her brother.

"Put him through!" she told the operator. Then she whispered to Dipper: "It's Charlie, and he's calling under his own name! He must be in really big trouble."

They waited; Dipper crossed around behind the desk to listen.

"Mabel, are you there?" Charlie asked.

"Oh my gosh, Charlie!" Mabel yelled. "Where have you been? Are you alive!? Did the Gleefuls hurt you?"

"I'm fine for now," he muttered. "We'll see about later..."

"What do you mean for now!?" Mabel demanded.

"It's been rough so far," he said. "I'll have to tell you about it later. Is there anywhere we can meet?"

"We need to meet here!" Mabel shouted again. Dipper looked around anxiously, worried that his sister's loudness would attract unwanted attention.

"Can't get to the Capitol," Charlie said sadly, sighing. "I'm somewhere in...I think Alexandria."

"I'll send a car or something," Mabel announced. Then she turned to Dipper: "I can do that, right?" Dipper shrugged.

"You're no help, dummy," she whispered, slugging her brother. "I'll have someone pick you up," she said.

"Charlie, we're on the trail of something big," Dipper said. "I don't want to say anything over the telephone, but..."

"Dipper? Oh God, you don't know how glad I am to hear your voice."

"Erm, same here, man."

"Is Wendy with you?"

"No, Wendy's...I haven't talked to her since this morning."

There was a long, deadly pause on the other end.

"Jesus," Charlie said, making a choked sob into the phone. Mabel reciprocated, coughing a few sobs into the back of her hand.

"Charlie, you are in Alexandria," Dipper said firmly while patting his sister on the back. "Go to the Library and wait near the entrance." (He didn't know anything about the library, but he knew nothing about Alexandria, either, and reckoned they had a library.) "We will send someone to pick you up."

Charlie paused again; Mabel leaned forward so hard, waiting for a response, that her chair nearly tipped over.

"All right, I'll do my best," he said finally.

"Okay, cool. Stay safe. We need you, man. I can't make heads or tails of this stuff."

"Yeah, I'll bet!" Charlie said, forcing a laugh. "Talk soon, man. God, I never thought I'd miss cell phones so much."

"Stay safe," Dipper repeated.

"Love you!" Mabel yelled as Charlie hung up.

As Dipper lowered the phone towards the receiver, he heard an odd click on the other end. It took him a moment to realize what was happening, but he hurriedly slammed the receiver down and turned to his sister, doing her best to emulate Sweatertown in a '70s pantsuit.

"Mabel...it will be okay," Dipper assured her. Though right now, he wasn't too sure of that himself.

"Mabel's not here," she said. "She's in Pantsuit Nation, represented by Ariel Schuyler. Please route all inquiries through her office."

"Mabel...at least we know Charlie's safe. That's a good sign."

Mabel nodded, but still didn't come out. Dipper decided not to mention the phone tap, decided to be a brother.

"You know that the two of us can do just about anything," Dipper said. "How many times do we need to prove that to each other? And with Charlie, we'll be even better. And once we get in touch with Wendy..." He trailed off, unable to complete that thought.

"We'll be **unstoppable**!" Mabel finished his thought, popping out of her suit. She leaned forward to hug her brother, but did too fast, tipping off her chair and spilling onto the floor.

"Well, I've learned one thing," she muttered as Dipper helped her up.

"What's that?"

"I don't like Pantsuit Nation as much as Sweatertown," she groaned, rubbing her elbows.


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's note: Posting today's chapter early since I'll likely be tied up this evening. Enjoy!_

 **July 24th, 1974**

 **2:30 pm**

 _"Gotta get down to it_

 _"Soldiers are cutting us down_

 _"Should have been done long ago"_

Wendy listened to Neil Young's ominous, mournful refrain as Becky lit another cigarette. She sat on the hood of the car in the McDonald's parking lot, letting the music blare out of the stereo, oblivious to her companion's creeping nervousness.

"My sister Laura was at Kent State," Becky confided to Wendy. "Don't know if I told you that before. She was friends with Allison Krause, watched the soldiers shoot her down in front of everyone. Laura got a stray bullet in her ankle and she wasn't even protesting - thankfully it wasn't serious. I didn't really care about politics before that, but then I thought..." Her voice caught in her throat as she coughed up a burst of cigarette smoke.

"How it could have been me. I was seventeen at the time, you know, and that's all I could think about. How if the pigs were gunning down nineteen year old white honor students, whose only crime was opposing an imperialist war, who of us were safe? You know, speaks to my privileged status I guess. I didn't care that much when blacks and Communists were getting slaughtered, but..." And she took another huff of smoke, thinking.

Wendy nodded dumbly, trying to follow her line of thought. Also, trying not to think overmuch about her disreputable task. About how little she'd wanted to return to these creeps after the morning's altercation with Dirk, but how Saito forced her into it, goading them into incriminating themselves through their actions.

 _"What if you knew her?_

 _"And found her dead on the ground?"_

"Better than Bill, anyway," Becky continued. "He voted for Nixon in '68 because he thought Tricky Dick would end the war. He, an SDS leader, sneaking off to vote Republican! I think now he wants to blow things up to make up for being so catastrophically wrong."

"Do you think Allison would have wanted this?" Wendy asked, unable to think of anything else to say. Becky turned, shot her a scornful look and breathed smoke in Wendy's face.

"Not doing this just for her," Becky insisted. "Doing this for _everyone_ who's ever been killed by this fascist government, in our country and in Vietnam and Africa and Chile and everywhere Lyndon Johnson and Dick Nixon and Coca-Cola wreak their wrath. There ain't no one who isn't complicit in this shit except the people who are fighting it."

 _"How can you run when you know?"_

Wendy tried to follow the twists in her logic. It made some sense, in its own darkly simple way, if you assumed that everyone was engaged in a great moral struggle, that political commitment was the secular equivalent of Original Sin. That degree of simple clarity had its appeal, Wendy supposed, but she knew from her own experience that the world was too complex, too nuanced for her to ever buy into it. It was the same reason she rarely went to church, same reason that she didn't care about politics until it involved her and her friends directly.

But in chatting with Becky, a bright and pretty and passionate young woman who liked Neil Young and cigarettes like many more harmless, less committed young adults of that era, she understood how terrorists were born. And that insight both exhilarated and terrified her.

"There are only five of us," Wendy reminded her. "Do you really think we have a chance of pulling it off?"

"Bit late to back out, Charlotte," Becky said scornfully. "Besides, we have people on the inside who are going to help us out."

"The inside of...?" Wendy tried to puzzle out what this could mean.

"Man, what's **with** you?" Becky snarled, tossing her cigarette onto the pavement. "Are you retarded? Dirk balling you shake your brains loose? You need everything fucking spelled out for you?"

"Listen man, enough slut shaming," Wendy shouted, unconcerned at introducing an anachronism into the conversation. "Just stop and think, all right? We're gonna do something big and potentially world-shaking and you think it's wrong to get everything planned out to the T? My God, you're almost as bad as the guys."

"All I know is that yesterday you were just as excited about this as us," Becky insisted. But she looked downcast, apologetic for snapping at her sister-in-arms. "Guess we're all a little nervous. Guess that's why Dirk thought he could take a pass at you like that, huh?"

"That or he's a prick," Wendy grumbled.

"God, some of those jackasses never moved past the Smash Monogamy bag," Becky said, flipping her hair. "That was fun for about a week, then it got old real fast. Made me never want to have sex with anyone ever again...for awhile, anyway. Anyway, it's like Women's Lib is a thing that ain't happening to some of these clowns. Don't know about Chan - I think he's queer, between you and me - but Dirk and Bill go all the way back, I think, to the SDS days so they still think the position of women in the Movement is prone. Well honey, I say horseshit! It ain't 1968 anymore."

"Right on," Wendy said, and Becky tussled her hair.

"Besides, Dirk screwed up that damned arms trade on his own," Becky said. "Could have gotten some cheap machine guns, coulda negotiated. Maybe you should have stepped in."

"Maybe," Wendy shrugged. "Probably wouldn't have gone as bad. Though I'm not sure why we need guns the day before...you know."

"Never hurts to be prepared," Becky responded. "Besides, we have something cheaper lined up with someone else. Fuck Saito."

The two sat for awhile, staring and listening as "Carry On" queued up on the radio.

"I'm gonna grab some burgers," Becky said. "Plotting revolution makes me famished. You want anything, Char?"

"Nah, I'm all right," Wendy muttered, forcing a grimace onto her face.

"Listen, I'll tell you this," Becky said, standing up. "If Dirk or Bill give you any more trouble tonight, let me know and I'll cut their balls off. Sometimes it's okay to be macho, but it's never okay to treat a woman like shit. The sooner they learn that, the better. You dig?"

"I dig," Wendy agreed. "Thanks."

"No problem," Becky said. "I got your back." And the two women clinched hands before Becky went into the restaurant. Leaving Wendy alone, staring into space and contemplating her predicament. She fiddled the tape recorder under her coat, moving it so things wouldn't be conspicuous.

* * *

The immaculately-dressed young man in a crew cut (not that different from his appearance forty-four years later, really) arrived at the Capitol building trembling with fear. He'd had to sneak and ask directions to the library, fearing every inch of the way that he was about to catch a bullet or knife in his back. He spent a half-hour lazily browsing books in the New Releases section. He spent awhile mindlessly thumbing through "new" books by Alistair MacLean and Frederick Forsyth, wondered if he'd ever be able to read or watch a thriller again after the numbing, harrowing experience of the past few hours.

He found Allen Drury's most recent pile of paranoid excrement on the shelf, too. He had read it in his own time period, as Drury (a Pulitzer winner debased by success and his own dark fantasies) spinning a dread tale of an ambitious liberal egotist who dismantled democracy, trampled political opponents and sold his country out to the Soviet Union, all in the name of peace. With the ironic hindsight gained by living through the Trump Administration, he laughed his head off at the turgid, fun-house nightmares of the '70s Right, a bit too loud for the librarians' comfort.

Then he undertook a long ride in a limousine from Alexandria to DC. Mabel had sent it for him, of course, but he couldn't be sure if this would bring him deliverance or death. The chauffeur barely spoke to him, barely even made eye contact, took what he called a "shortcut" which stranded them in traffic. His mind instantly leaped to trap, but fortunately things sorted themselves out.

When he finally arrived at the Capitol steps, he recognized a gaggle of his Gleeful colleagues, still imploring Congressmen and bystanders to Forgive, Love, Unite. Several recognized him and tried to catch his attention, but he simply put his head down and rushed past, not wanting anything more to do with them.

"Oh, Charlie!" Mabel said, hugging him tightly as he entered the lobby. She had managed to restrain herself for Dipper, but by now too much anxiety - far too much - had built up for her to keep up the pretense of not knowing these people. Maybe she garnered a few looks, but she was beyond caring. She led her boyfriend into her office, where Dipper was still sitting, puzzling over the paper.

"There you are, man!" Dipper bolted to his feet and shook Charlie's hand, patted him on the back. "We were worried sick!"

"That's a nice way of putting it!" Mabel said, wrapping her arms around Charlie from behind. "Ohmigosh, I thought you were dead or brainwashed or..."

"Not yet," he said quietly. "But I'm lucky."

"What happened?" Mabel demanded, swinging herself around to his front. "Tell us everything!" Though her eyes showed a fear at what he might have to share...

"There'll be time for that later," Charlie said, breaking free of her vice grip and walking over to Dipper. "Show me these documents, man." To keep himself sane, he adopted an attitude of all business.

As they perused the documents, Mabel's assistant Chelsea swung open the door.

"We have Jasmine Crawford, the cultural attache from the New Zealand embassy on Line Two for you," Chelsea said. "She said she tried to call you twice today, but..."

"Tell her to call back!" Mabel shouted. "Who cares about the culture of New Zealand right now, we're about to impeach a president!"

Chelsea looked around at the Congresswoman and her two mismatched colleagues, shrugged, then shut the door. Mabel made sure to lock it.

"Oh my God," Charlie said, his dread instantly coming out.

"Do you recognize anything here?" Dipper asked, though the answer was obvious.

"Jesus," Charlie said, rubbing hand through his barely-existent hair. Then he pounded a fist on Mabel's desk.

"I mean, I recognize DEFCON 2, that's the highest level of military alert short of an actual nuclear war," Dipper said. "And I think we've only ever reached it during the Cuban Missile Crisis..."

"And the first Gulf War," Charlie interrupted. "I mean, the first paragraph is terrifying in and of itself, but look at these phrases here: Giant Lance. This was a nuclear alert launched in October 1969 where Nixon ordered fully armed nuclear bombers to fly into Soviet airspace for a period of several days. No one in our time has ever figured out what he hoped to accomplish with this...Intimidate the Soviets into signing an arms deal? Possibly helping to end the Vietnam War? No one knows to this day!

"And Duck Hook? Jesus Christ. Bombing the Red River dikes in North Vietnam, which would have flooded the whole country, killed 300,000 civilians and starved a million more. And possible deployment of nuclear weapons against Hanoi and other northern cities. These were emergency contingencies designed to end the Vietnam War but were never carried about because...I guess even Nixon had his limits."

Dipper and Mabel smiled at each other, glad to count such a nerd among their friends. Then the dread significance of his words hit them.

"But we're not in Vietnam any more," Charlie continued. "How would they even carry out Duck Hook unless they had forces available? I don't recognize these other operations listed, the Naval exercises and so forth. They must be emergency deployments..." He scanned the plan again... "Oh God, approved October 15th, 1969." He sighed in relief and confusion.

"Looks like whoever gave you this sold you a bill of goods," Charlie said. "This is an old contingency plan if the riots or protests in fall of '69 got out of hand."

"But my contact in the White House told me they were still operational," Dipper said, frantically scanning it.

"Doesn't look like it," Charlie said, suddenly calming down. "Thank God, you had me scared for a moment there..." And he sat down, sighing in exhaustion.

Dipper put the sheaf of papers on the desk, feeling disappointed and dejected. Mabel reached over and picked it up.

"Like today hasn't been awful enough without the President triggering nuclear war," Charlie said, burying his head in his hands. "The Gleefuls have something crazy planned, something involving blowing up the Capitol or starting the Second Coming or...My God, how I got through that without them killing me..."

"Wendy was saying something crazy happened on her end, too," Dipper said. "But I haven't been able to get in touch with her since this morning..."

"Uhh, guys?" Mabel interrupted. "I think you're gonna want to see this."

The boys turned and saw Mabel holding up a small, typewritten piece of paper she'd found somewhere amidst the file. It read:

 **"THIS PLAN REVISED AND RENEWED 10 JUNE 1974. DO NOT COPY SECDEF, SECSTAT OR OTHER NSC STAFF. EYES ONLY.**

 **"Signed,**

 **"Richard M. Nixon, President of the United States.**

 **"Admiral Thomas H. Moorer, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff."**

"Holy shit!" Dipper muttered, one of the few times Mabel or Charlie had ever heard him swear. But then, when contemplating the end of the world, profanity seemed an appropriate response.

* * *

"Everybody's bugging everybody, man," Bill said, tapping his foot impatiently on the apartment. He was wearing a different outfit than earlier, a flared leisure suit with its chest open, trying to look casual when in fact he was twitching and pacing and smoking worse than ever. "The FBI's bugging the Panthers, the CIA's bugging the Weathermen, the Plumbers are bugging the Democrats, the President's bugging himself. Everybody in this damn country likes to bug each other. Everybody's listening to everything. Fuck it, we can't be too careful."

And so Chandler Monahan sighed again and did another round through their hideout, using an electronic device to sweep for bugs.

The three male members of the People's Liberation Vanguard waited tensely. Bill leaned against the wall, playing with his revolver. Dirk's head was still sore from his encounter with Wendy earlier; he lay splayed out on a couch. On the pool table in the middle of the room lay two Uzis which Bill had purchased an hour ago from a radical Black Power group after the deal with Saito fell through. A phonograph played Jefferson Airplane tunes, not that anyone noticed.

"We are clean," Chandler said, exhausted, putting down his equipment. "Nothing here to get excited about. We're as safe as we'll be anywhere."

"All right, nobody use the phone or go out until we hear back from our friends the Gleefuls," Bill insisted. "Shit, we're already taking a huge risk..."

"Taking a pretty big risk letting Red back into our apartment," Dirk complained.

Bill nodded. "Yeah, it's fucked up what that bitch did to you, but I think Becky's right. Better to have her on the outside pissing out than...whatever it was LBJ said that one time. You know?"

"All I wanted to do was stick it in her," Dirk continued. "Like, is that so much to ask? Why she's so uptight?"

"Maybe she gets dry when it's time to carry out operations," Bill snickered.

"See, I like my girls who get a little wet when Revolution _comes_ ," Dirk said, sitting up and laughing at his own gross pun. "They're a lot more fun to deal with, y'know?"

"You two charmers aren't gonna get any more action talking like that," Chandler said quietly.

"Hey shut it, man!" Bill said. "Do you even know what a girl looks like? Probably not."

"All I know is that two members of our collective are women, and you're talking like it's still the bad old days when their only job was to give us coffee and blow jobs." Chandler, normally quiet and sedate, seemed unusually animated by the topic. "Man, didn't Bernardine Dohrn teach you fucksticks anything? Kathy Wilkerson? Diana Oughton? Angela Davis? Not to mention our very own Becky and Charlotte, the very women you're badmouthing. You people are so squared you're fucking cubed."

"I'm just saying, Mr. Steinem," Dirk mocked, "she's never had a problem putting out before unless she was on the rag, and now she's acting like a fucking nun."

"A nun who can kick your ass, apparently," Bill said, and the other men had a laugh at his expense.

"Only because I didn't see it coming," Dirk murmured.

Their man talk was interrupted when Becky burst in the door. Wendy followed meekly after her, reluctant to make eye contact with Dirk.

"Speaking of our lovely comrades," Bill said with as much charm as he could muster. "We were just having a Socratic discourse on the nature of Woman."

"Sure you were," Becky said. "Me and Charlotte were discussing the philosophical failures of the emasculated Western man on our way over here. Fucking creeps."

"Hey, we may be creeps but we're **your** creeps," Bill said, grabbing Becky's hips.

"Not hardly," she said, pushing him away. Dirk laughed.

"Hey Charlotte," Dirk said. "Sorry about earlier, ya know? I was feeling fresh and forgot that you were a comrade with her own mind, or some shit." He turned to Becky. "How's that?"

"Almost there," Becky grumbled. Then she walked over to the pool table and examined the Uzis, sighting one at her male colleagues.

"Far out!" she said. "You got these from Leroy?"

"Sure thing," Bill said proudly, resting his pistol on a bookshelf. "Also purchased about 40 clips. Enough to light up a bank."

"Way better than what that slopehead tried to sell us," Dirk murmured.

"That's no way to talk about our Asian brother-in-arms," Chandler said.

"He was a piece of shit who was hawking overpriced goods," Dirk grunted. "I'll call the dink what I want."

Wendy nodded along, glad that they hadn't yet guessed Saito's true allegiance. They already seemed to hate him though, so would it make a difference?

"We're still waiting for our other friends to come through with the uranium," Bill groused. "They're not gonna have it ready until tonight."

"Shit, I wanted us to be able to batten down until tomorrow morning," Becky complained. "Now we've gotta wait until someone calls us or contacts us or whatever?"

Bill shrugged. "You know these guys. They're total creeps, but they like to have everything lined up before they go. You've never seen a cult so organized!"

"Well, whatever works," Becky muttered. "Either way...Explosives ready, Chan?"

"Definitely," Chandler smiled. "We have enough to blow up the whole city and that's without the uranium."

"Good," Becky said. "Took us long enough, but we're finally ready to make our move! Revolution's been a long time coming in this country, and now it's here."

"Yeah!" Bill said. Dirk raised a fist.

"Got to get down to it," Becky continued, echoing the song lyrics earlier.

"Should have been done long ago," Bill agreed.

"How can you run when you know?" Chandler said.

Then they all threw up a clenched fist and shouted "POWER TO THE PEOPLE!" Wendy followed suit halfheartedly, not saying the words, pondering the machine guns on the table.

She needed to get in touch with her friends, she thought, one way or another. Things were going too far, too fast, and the last thing she wanted was to be cloistered in a hideout with these lefty lunatics all night.

"Hey, maybe I could meet with the Gleefuls," she volunteered. "I mean, someone has to and...after what happened earlier, I feel like I need to redeem myself."

Her colleagues looked at each other skeptically. "Maybe we could let you handle it," Bill said. "I mean, I plan to get dead drunk tonight..."

"No drinking, no dope or anything hard tonight!" Becky shouted. "We can't be sloppy tomorrow, you idiot!"

She turned back to Wendy and smiled. "All right, Comrade Hurt, once we get the call you can take my Lincoln out and pick everything up." She smiled and punched Wendy in the chest...

Wendy heard a _click_ and a _pop_ and didn't realize what was happening until she felt the tape falling down her coat. By then it was too late; she stood stock still, everyone staring incredulously for a long, agonizing moment at the cassette laying on the ground before them. Then they all raised their eyes to Wendy, who instantly felt their hatred coming down on her, felt the fate of the World turning in an instant. She started reaching her right hand into her coat pocket, as discreetly as she could.

"Just like I said," Bill said coldly, breaking through the silence. He walked back over to the bookshelf and grabbed his revolver, opening the chamber and popping in a fresh round. "Everybody's fucking bugging everybody."

He closed it, cocked it, aimed the weapon at Wendy's head. Wendy panicked, feeling the emergency signal with her fingers, praying to God she'd have time to push the button...


	14. Chapter 14

**July 24th, 1974**

 **Arlington, VA**

 **4:00 pm**

Wendy heard the gunshot, heard the protests and screams from her colleagues across the room, felt the signal in her hand, pressed the button with all her might. There was a white flash, so bright it blinded Wendy, disoriented her, threw her into darkness. She doubled over, then collapsed to her knees, shaking and nauseous, as if hit with electricity. She hadn't felt this way when Blendin transported her before, so she wondered if the bullet _had_ hit her, if this is what dying felt like.

Then she woke up and opened her eyes and saw the white void. For a moment, she thought that somehow, against her expectations, she'd made it to Heaven, and uttered a self-conscious chuckle. Then she recognized that she was back in 20713, back in the office of the Time Paradox Removal Enforcement Squadron, and that she was, for now at least, okay. But she didn't see Blendin, didn't see her friends, didn't even see Ford, and felt confused and alone.

* * *

 **July 23rd, 2018**

 **Gravity Falls, OR**

Gideon Gleeful had tried his best over the past few years to fulfill his vow of becoming normal. Sure, skateboarding didn't suit him, nor did having Ghosteyes follow him everywhere bespeak normalcy. But he went to school, associated with kids his own age, and most important, stopped claiming to be psychic or messing with the "spooky spells" that had caused him and everyone else so much trouble.

He was now a high school sophomore, on the cusp of his 16th birthday. He was still somewhat below-average in height, still stocky, but his hair (though still strangely white) was shorter and manageable, his dress more casual - he preferred golf shirts to his old suits these days, for one. He was still a bit odd in his mannerisms; his voice retained its high hillbilly twang, his motions and vocabulary still seemed more like an adult trapped in a kid's body than a real teenager. But he was still Gideon Gleeful, and he felt that he'd changed everything that was truly important.

So when Blendin Blandin visited him that hot summer day, he played the part of the wronged innocent, the reformed convict not receiving a fair shake at redemption.

"I don't know what poppycock y'all are talkin' about," Gideon insisted. "I haven't been messin' with any kind of time travel spells or altering the fabric of the Universe for quite awhile, now. Geez, you people are all the same. I make a few little mistakes..."

"I'd call nearly ending the Universe more than a 'little mistake,'" Blendin interjected.

"...and you act like it's still 2012 and I'm still Li'l Gideon," he continued without a beat. "Is there nothing I can do to make recompense? Is there no amount of good behavior I can do to convince you that I've changed?"

"Maybe, if you've really changed, you can explain this," Blendin shrieked, presented Gideon with the card bearing the double-cross and G. Gideon took it and stared, hoping to unravel some meaning from the symbol.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's a symbol of the Church of Revelations, a cult founded by _your_ grandfather," Blendin said. "We found it at the scene of a Time Anomaly in 1974 that caused a drastic shift in the Space-Time Continuum. Someone traveled back in time, or else somehow triggered an anomaly...Look, I'm still investigating it. I haven't worked out all the details. And frankly, I'm a bit annoyed because usually it's easier to pinpoint where something like this started."

"Well, if you don't know, how would **I** know?" Gideon shrugged. "My grandfather died almost thirty years before I was born, and all I know is that he was a preacher..."

"Bit more than a preacher," Blendin said. "He thought he was the Messiah!"

Gideon laughed uproariously. "Oh, that's a good'un! Guess swindlin' folks runs in the family."

"And destroying the fabric of the Universe?" Blendin demanded, with what authority he could muster. Before he could summon anything more than squeaky indignation, one of his emergency beacons flickered on and off.

"Ohh jeez!" he screamed. "Should have figured this would happen eventually..." He looked to see which device was flashing and pushed a button twice, until it stopped flickering. "I'm gonna have to cut this short, but I'll be back later. Don't go anywhere. If you do, guess I'll be able to find you."

And so Blendin dematerialized, leaving Gideon unphased but a little irritated. He looked the card over once more, then took it into the living room where his father was eating lunch, watching a rerun of Baby Fights on television.

"Hello Daddy," Gideon said.

"Gideon, what are you up to? Thought I heard you shoutin' at someone." Bud didn't turn his attention away from the television.

"Oh, some kinda time traveler showed up, accusing li'l ole me of traveling through time and messing up the Universe," he said nonchalantly, rolling his eyes. "You think they'll ever stop blamin' me for everything that goes wrong in the Universe? It's getting old!"

"Well, you _did_ cause some awful big problems last time you messed around with those spells," Bud reminded him.

"That was six years ago!" Gideon shouted angrily. "My God, I have done everything to become a normal kid and no one believes that I am or can be! It's so unfair."

Bud didn't respond, just smiling dumbly as he took a sip of Pit Cola.

"Well, he did give me one thing that was kinda interesting," Gideon said. He handed his father the card. And Bud's eyes went wide with shock.

"My God," Bud muttered, dropping his food tray to the floor.

"What is it, Daddy?" Gideon asked.

"I thought I would never see this sign of God's Deliverance again," Bud continued, his voice a low, bearish growl.

"Daddy, I thought I told you I didn't like this kinda talk outside of church," Gideon murmured. His father had taken to attending Baptist revival churches since Weirdmageddon, despite his wife's reluctance and Gideon's obvious disinterest. (Frankly, Gideon thought, if God existed how could create something as evil as Bill Cipher?)

"Gideon, your grandfather was a great man," Bud continued, with a forcefulness and anger that shocked Gideon. "More than that, he was a Savior come to deliver a fallen world. But only a few were able to see and to listen and to follow. The rest were blind and stupid and evil and conspired with the Devil to destroy him. Look four decades later where the world is, tell me that we're better off. Better that the tribulation had been carried out and Judgment Day brought forth..."

"Daddy, I don't know what you're talking about," Gideon interrupted, "but you're scaring me."

"Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee," Bud recited. "You would do well to remember that, young man. "When in your life have you _**ever**_ honored me or your mother?"

Gideon looked around, confused. "What are you talkin' about, Daddy? You know I've always..." (Even though both of them knew he hadn't done, in fact spent much of his life mocking and pushing his parents around.)

"That's what's become of morality in this world," Bud said. "The sons dictate to the fathers, the youth have no respect. Well, I figure that's why the world isn't worth saving." Then he turned towards Gideon, his eyes filled with a menace Gideon had never before seen.

"I'll tell you something, Gideon, I honor **my** father. Enough that I've given him a second chance to do right. To circumvent the forces of evil that thwarted him and bring upon the world it's just punishment. I found a way to change things so that, instead of an ignominious, squalid death Charles Gideon Gleeful - not only your grandfather, your _namesake!_ \- could carry out his mission."

As he spoke, the television went blank and static. The walls seemed to short circuit like a video image.

"Daddy, you were the one who told me not to ever use those spells again!" Gideon reminded him, watching the lights flicker off and on.

"Sometimes even the tools of the wicked can be put to worthy use," Bud proclaimed.

Gideon heard a rumbling and looked out the window. He saw two people walking down the sidewalk vanish, a car driving down the street turning into a rusted hulk. He rushed outside and looked around, watching as the town changed before his eyes.

Everywhere there was chaos and ruin. Buildings that moments earlier had stood were now crumpled ruins, piles of brick and concrete and ash. The road was ancient, covered in dust and potholed. There were rusted cars - but older cars, a vintage Gideon didn't recognize - everywhere, collapsed signs and telephone polls, even dead animals. The birds refused to sing. All the trees within sight had been blasted flat, leaving a long, deadening expanse of sky. There were no people in town - at least, no living people.

Gideon backed away in horror. He turned back towards his own house and saw two shadows looming on the wall behind him. In expectation, he turned...and saw no one there. He looked at the shadows again...and realized that they'd been scorched onto the side of the building.

Trembling, Gideon looked up and saw that his home no longer existed, aside from a charred foundation. In the midst of it stood Bud, still unaffected for the moment, his head and hands raised towards the heaven.

"Father, I have done your work," Bud proclaimed. "I did not think I could, I thought that my work would be in vain...but I have delivered you."

Gideon saw tears roll down his father's cheeks. Then he shorted out like the wall, flickering into an indistinct image, then coming back into focus.

 **"DAD!"** Gideon screamed, reaching out for him. He grasped air.

His father was gone. And Gideon was all alone, left with the ruins of a town and a world that only moments before had been his home. He started sobbing uncontrollably. He watched in terror as his tears vanished into thin air, felt his limbs fade away into nothing. And then, before he could form a full thought, he, too, was gone.

The last survivor in Gravity Falls...but five.

* * *

 **20713**

"Wendy, I'm sorry I kept you waiting!" Blendin cried, dabbing himself. "Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

"I think I'm fine," Wendy said, as a medical robot finished its examination of her. "Felt a little queasy after coming through, but I'm okay now."

"What went wrong?" Blendin asked.

"It's a long story," Wendy said. "Some FBI guy tried to entrap me, the terrorist guys figured it out, they were about to blow my brains out and...Hear we are."

"So, nothing that can't be undone?" Blendin said.

"Well...since you saved me, yeah," Wendy asked. "Still not sure how this whole time travel thing works."

"You made it through without serious injury or death," Blendin said, "and that's what's important. I wouldn't forgive myself if any of you guys didn't make it back okay."

Suddenly an alarm sounded. **TIME ANOMALY CRISIS** flashed on a view screen. Blendin and Wendy looked up and saw an image of Gravity Falls in the present...now the same atom-blasted hellscape Gideon had watched unfold.

"Oh jeez! The time alteration caught up with the present! Something must have been done to exacerbate it!"

Wendy stared in shock. "So...2018 is gone?" she asked.

"Unless we fix everything...yes." Blendin hung his head in defeat. Wendy bit her lip, then put an arm on his shoulder.

"Hey dude, we aren't gonna let that happen," she assured him. "I mean, that's why you recruited us! We're the Mystery Team, remember?"

"I guess that's right," Blendin said, forcing a smile. "But until I figure out what caused the anomaly...what thing the Gleefuls or whomever used..."

"Dude, I already know I'm going back," she assured him. "Piece of cake. You do what you need to do, and we'll handle the rest." She cracked her knuckles as an exclamation point.

"Really?" Blendin asked. "Oh thank God! I am so, so sorry to put you through all of this."

"Chill, man. You said as long as we're in your time warp thingy, we still exist, right?"

"That's right," Blendin affirmed.

"Okay, so send me back to 1974," Wendy said. "Just...maybe somewhere a little safer than the path of a bullet."

"Okay," Blendin said. "Give me a moment and confirm where Dipper and Mabel and what's his name are."

"Holy Moses!" a familiar voice boomed. Wendy looked over and saw Ford staring at the wasteland of his hometown. It took him a long moment before he noticed Wendy.

"Wendy, what are you doing back here?" he asked.

"Things went south for me pretty quick," Wendy grumbled.

"Are the others safe?" Ford demanded.

"So far as I know," Wendy said. "Hadn't seen them in a few hours."

"Well, I'm glad you're okay, but...are you any closer to figuring things out?"

"I mean, I figured out that these terrorists were getting uranium or something to blow up the Capitol building and kill everyone in DC. And that they were working with those Gleeful weirdos to do it. And that men in the '70s were real pigs."

Ford nodded grimly. "I mean, you didn't think Stan got his attitudes about women from nowhere, did you?"

Wendy shrugged. "Figured Stan was just an asshole," she admitted. To Wendy's surprise, this caused Ford to laugh.

"He could be one at times, for sure," Ford said. "Thanks Wendy, that's the first bit of humor I've had from this whole situation."

"You seem pretty laid back about your brother vanishing into thin air," Wendy said. "I mean, you were shaken up earlier, but..."

"When you disappear into the Multiverse for thirty years, you take things as they come," Ford said. "And like you said, if you're able to fix everything it won't matter. I'll just hang out here and play four-dimensional chess with Chester the Chessbot."

 **"WHO'S UP FOR ANOTHER GAME!? IS IT YOU, FORD!? IT'S NOT LIKE YOU HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO!" **a shrill, electronic voice chirped from somewhere in the headquarters.

"Ugh, I've been playing with him for three hours and he's already getting on my nerves," Ford admitted. "I have faith in you and the other kids," he said to Wendy. "Just sorry I can't be there to help you."

 **"COME COME, FORD!"** Chester proclaimed. **"THE GIUOCO PIANO WON'T PLAY ITSELF! LET'S SEE IF YOU CAN LAST MORE THAN TWELVE MOVES THIS TIME!"**

"Maybe I'll find a nice, quiet game of solitaire," Ford muttered.

Blendin interrupted. "Okay, it looks like they're all in Mabel's office in the Capitol. I should be able to zap you there in just a second. Unless there's somewhere else you would prefer..."

"I mean, getting back together with everyone is the first step," Wendy said. "Kinda hard to act unless we're able to pool our knowledge. And that's been freakin' hard so far."

Blendin nodded and adjusted his time-ruler, preparing to travel back.

"Good luck, Wendy," Ford said, offering a thin smile.

"No big deal, dude," Wendy assured him. "We're just saving the world."

Blendin extended his hand, Wendy grabbed it and the two had vanished.


	15. Chapter 15

**July 24th, 1974**

 **Washington, DC**

 **4:15 pm**

Anyone entering Ariel Schuyler's congressional office would have been puzzled. Crammed into that small room were four disparate individuals: the Congresswoman herself, known if at all for being aloof, haughty and cozily conservative (once dubbed "the Republican Grace Kelly" by some wag in _The Atlantic_ ), now strangely energetic and bouncy and outgoing; a frantic-looking White House aide; a crew-cut cultist; and a long-haired, denim-wearing radical woman. All anxiously huddled together, plotting how they could save the world.

"So Blendin's still out there investigating?" Mabel asked, puzzled. "Why can't he just travel to whenever the time thingy happened and fix it?"

"You know, I'm not entirely straight on that," Wendy admitted. "Said something about the person who activated it using a weapon or masking their actions or something...Anyway, he says he's gotta do a lot more investigating before he can fix anything."

"Good thing we have essentially unlimited time," Dipper said.

"But we don't!" Mabel insisted, flailing her arms. "The bomb or attack or Duck or whatever it's called is going down tomorrow! We have less than twenty-four hours to sort this out!"

"Listen, there's no way I can go back to those bomb-throwing lunatics without getting skinned alive," Wendy insisted. "I don't care what that FBI dude says or does to me, or Charlotte, or whatever."

"I mean, you found out what they're planning to do, more or less," Dipper said. "I don't know what more we could ask from you."

"Yeah." Wendy nodded, more to reassure herself than from agreement.

Then she turned to Charlie. "Dude, guess you and I are in the same boat. We're supposed to be infiltrating these groups, but now we're on the outside looking in."

"You never told us what went on with you this morning," Dipper reminded him. "Seems like a good time to share."

"Come on, Charlie!" Mabel said. "We've all shared our tales of time travel terror, now it's your turn."

They all turned to Charli, whoe sighed and looked down dramatically for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "All right," he began.

* * *

Charlie's day began about twelve hours earlier - before his friends had even woken up. He and his fellow worshipers of the Church of Revelations slept in cheap cots with paper-thin mattresses and sharp wooden boards protruding upwards. The first thing Charlie noticed was his shoulder being pushed out of joint by the bed. The second was the wake-up call.

 **"TIME FOR THE FAITHFUL TO AWAKEN!"** a loud, angry voice shouted as others banged pots and pans. **"REPORT TO THE CENTER FOR FOOD THEN CALISTHENICS! THERE IS NO REST FOR THE FAITHFUL!"**

 _Calisthenics?_ Charlie wondered as he dragged himself from bed. Today was already off to an awful start.

Charlie tried figuring out where he was. It was a huge building with a high metal ceiling - it looked like an airplane hangar, or an abandoned warehouse. Early morning sunlight trickled in through high windows (others were boarded shut). There was only dim lamplight within the building otherwise, casting an eerie glow. At least, Charlie reflected, there was some kind of air conditioning in the building - if anything it felt too cool, like a tomb.

The faithful - about 300 of them, Charlie guessed - were already dressed, the men in dress shirts with ties, the women in skirts. Hair trimmed short, skin scrubbed clean, all except for black rings under their eyes. They filed into the middle of another large, cavernous room with several large dining tables set up. Overhead hung two large banners with the Gleeful double-cross, a portrait of the Reverend himself in between them.

They ate their breakfast quickly, watched by stern overseers. Peanut butter sandwiches with water - a bare minimum of nutrition to remain alive. Charlie ate two sandwiches, blanched at the stale bread, the musty peanut butter, practically gagged on it. Then watched his colleagues eating their sandwiches, silently, without complaint. Without conversation. Everyone was all business. Or maybe they could think of anything to say.

Or maybe they couldn't think, period.

After fifteen minutes of eating, the tables were cleared away and the faithful were organized into six cohorts. A burly trainer took their place at the head and shouted instructions. Charlie shuffled into line of the group nearest to him, then the trainer began doing jumping jacks. Hundreds of jumping jacks. Without pause or stop. And Charlie felt his legs tightening, his chest giving out, his throat and lungs sore with every breath. He could barely keep up. But again, he noticed the preternatural calm, the dutiful unconcern of the Faithful. When he collapsed to his knees wheezing at the climax, everyone else snapped back to attention.

"Apostle Simon, are you ill?" one of the trainers asked, showing marked, disproportionate concern. It was the first emotion he'd seen from anyone up to that point. He watched 300 hundred heads turn as one to their afflicted brother, 600 eyes boring into him, and shuddered with terror.

"I am fine," Charlie wheezed. "Yesterday's actions must have tired me out."

"No rest for the Faithful," the trainer scolded, resuming his harsh tone. "If we choose between five hours of sleep or four, which do we choose?"

"FOUR!" came back the answer shouted as one.

"Four hours and three?"

"Three!"

"Three hours and zero?"

"Zero!"

"That is correct. The Lord's work is never done, and the Faithful must be prepared to fulfill it at any time. And today we have further business in the capital of utmost importance, as all of you know. First, we will listen to a sermon from our Father, the Reverend Gleeful, who unfortunately cannot join us in person. Then we will proceed with our actions."

"Praise be to God!" shouted the crowd.

Another man, tall and thirty-ish, stepped to the head of the group. The other Apostles gathered around him, standing "at ease" with arms behind them. It took Charlie a moment to remember that he was an Apostle, as well, and joined them in line, looking at the flock, staring in emotionless expectation.

A short, ruddy man carried a telephone in and rested it on the table.

"Salutations to the Faithful!" a melodious Southern voice came over the telephone.

"Salutations!" the Faithful responded, dropping to one knee.

"I am disappointed that I cannot join you today in person, but unfortunately there are pressing matters I must attend to overseas. Until then, I will leave you with an important thought. In Matthew 22:21, Jesus says 'Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and render unto God the things that are God's.' This is very practical advice for the oppressed, but it elides the simple fact that God often works through Caesar, and that the two cannot be distinguished or separated."

If Charlie harbored any doubts as to Reverend Gleeful's fraudulence, this bizarre little homily convinced him. For he, an agnostic at best, conjured from long-ago Sunday school lessons a verse from Romans: "Let every person be in subjection to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God and those which exist are established by God." But then it occurred to him that the Reverend thought he _was_ God, or at least a Messiah, and likely interpret scripture in a way that no honest Christian would abide.

"We have the luxury, living in a free and Christian nation, of following this simple advice," the Reverend Gleeful continued, "but millions around the world do not. Those who live under the scourge of godless Communism, whether in Europe or Asia or in Africa, or Latin America where I am establishing a new flock, will suffer greatly if they adhere to a government edict at the expense of scripture, at the cost of their conscience."

This actually struck Charlie as a reasonable response to totalitarianism, and he nodded along with everyone else. Then the Reverend went off the rails again:

"Thus it is imperative that we only follow authority when it serves our purposes. Thus we look for godly leaders like our President to sustain us in our struggle. Not that President Nixon is God, or a messiah. He is an instrument of that most fallible instrument of humanity, democracy, which often acts against the peoples' interest, against _God's_ interests. But through him flows the message and will of God, to protect the country from Communists and nonbelievers and other evildoers who would traduce this nation into chaos and violence. Therefore it is imperative that we do everything we can to maintain President Nixon in power, to thwart his enemies and, as soon as possible, smite them."

No response from the crowd.

"The Day of Reckoning will soon come," Gleeful promised, "and this country and indeed the world will be cleansed as it must be of all evil. Like Noah's Flood or Moses' plagues, another force will come and destroy all that is wicked, everything that is unholy. As God's messenger, as His right-hand man, I am working to affect it, rest assured. But until I can, I rely on you to continue our struggle with all our power. Blessings be upon you."

"And blessings to you," came back another mass response.

"I will be with you all soon, children," Gleeful said. "God bless you all."

"God bless you, Father," said the chorus. And the phone clicked into silence.

The leader of the apostles - Paul, he called himself - stepped forward to a microphone and addressed the crowd, which stood back up as one.

"Today we must prepare another descent on the capital," he said. "You will organize into your cohorts. The first will join me at the Capitol building. Apostle Andrew will lead another cohort outside the White House. The rest will join Apostles John and Simon for a rally with the Committee for Fairness. Prepare yourselves. Wash. Shave. If necessary, change your clothes. Get ready your signs and placards. Be ready at 7:00 am to move out. God be with you."

"And also with you." And slowly, the Faithful went back to their rooms, guided by trainers with truncheons, leaving only the Apostles behind.

Now Apostle Paul addressed his colleagues.

"The Reverend Gleeful must be circumspect before the Faithful," he said in an even voice, "but the day of Revelation is further at hand. As you all know, we are preparing to execute Plan Seraph. Until now, it seemed like an emergency we would never face, something unspeakable, unthinkable. But our sources from On High indicate that the President will soon be impeached by the Congress, the government will fall and chaos will reign. Unless we act."

"And how are we to affect this?" Charlie asked. It was a calculated risk, as in all likelihood those assembled should know the plan already, but he felt intimidated, scared enough by the whole mess that he didn't want to spend any time fumbling around with hints and implications and code phrases.

"Our sources from On High are preparing the device that will achieve it," he said. "We are using our sources on the inside to make the plan a reality."

"Will this involve the Capitol Building?" Charlie asked again. The second question drew some disapproving looks from his comrades.

"That is the central hinge of our plan," Paul agreed. "But not all of it. We are requiring hand-in-glove cooperation with our allies, both sources On High and elsewhere, to carry this out."

Charlie still felt this was too vague to tell him anything he didn't already know. But he realized he was stoking suspicion, and for now he quieted his tongue.

"Apostle Bartholomew will meet with our friends Underground this afternoon," Paul continued. "He will obtain what he needs for the finishing touches on our plan. Apostle Thomas will finish preparing the device afterwards. Tomorrow morning we will work with our friends On High, put the device in place and prepare to carry out the plan. Once the capital has been taken, a new government will reign, and it will allow our Messiah to return and take his rightful place on the Throne."

It was easy enough for Charlie to assume that "On High," in this context, meant the government and not God. Beyond that...did he mean someone in the White House? Congress? The military? All three? He couldn't figure it out, and it terrified him. What he knew already was more than enough to alarm anyone.

* * *

He went about his schedule, piling into a cramped van with about fifty of his followers, who would join him at the Committee for Fairness rally outside the Smithsonian. Charlie arrived and saw, to his shock, Rabbi Baruch Korff, who had spent a lifetime toiling for the Jewish people from Kishinev and Budapest to Jerusalem and Taunton, Massachusetts, and now lashed his reputation to a dying president. To Charlie's surprise he seemed remarkably polite, even friendly, greeting the Gleefuls with hearty handshakes and a warm, welcoming smile.

"Mr. Sheffield," the Rabbi said in a heavy Ukrainian accent. "Or should I refer to you as the Apostle Simon? Whatever will not offend your sensibilities."

"Speaking for myself, Mr. Sheffield is fine, Rabbi Korff," Charlie said. Though he noticed Apostle John looking over with an angry scowl. Charlie winced, realizing what an awful secret agent he'd made.

"Oh, that is good!" Korff said, throwing up his hands. Then he lowered his voice into a confiding whisper.

"Finally, one of you Gleefuls who talks like a sensible person! I apologize for talking frank, but I find some of this..." He caught himself before he deeply offended his ally. "Ah well, I do not need subscribe to the Reverend Gleeful's faith any more than he does mine."

"Tolerance like that is hard to come by," Charlie said, still feeling a bit awkward meeting this bizarre figure. He remembered reading about Rabbi Korff in a history class, writing a paper on him and the Committee for Fairness for his recent seminar - all an abstract topic to him then, long dead and mostly forgotten. And yet here was Korff, standing before him in flesh and blood.

"Do you think the President has a chance of losing?" Charlie asked him. Korff smiled benevolently, though his eyes crinkled in a way that betrayed doubt.

"Anything is possible, Mr. Sheffield," Korff said. "With friends like us though, how can he? The nation can't afford it."

Charlie nodded, and their brief conversation ended as the Rabbi went off to greet someone else. Charlie basked in the reflected weirdness of meeting the Rabbi, when he felt someone jerk his arm.

"Dear Simon, are you _sure_ you aren't ill?" Apostle John, a mild-aged man with a suntan and a football player's bulk, rasped into his ear. "Because allowing someone outside of the Faithful to even know our birth names will not _stand_ before the other Apostles! You should know that."

"I was just being polite," Charlie insisted. "I did not want the Rabbi treating me like an actual apostle..."

"What do you mean, an _actual_ apostle?" John growled, practically tearing Charlie's arm out of its socket. "Please tell me you are not having a crisis of faith so close to the Day of Reckoning. Perhaps when we return to headquarters, we should subject you to the Treatment."

"You will subject me to no such thing unless the Reverend commands it," Charlie snapped back. He pulled away from John and puffed out his chest, summoning whatever machismo he could. It only made John smile, a sad smile born from pity rather than true amusement.

"The Reverend is out of the country," John said, "and he trusts the rest of us to carry on in his absence. I'm sure we'll be able to explain our actions to him once he returns. Question is, will you?"

John patted Charlie malevolently on the back. Charlie looked around at the small crowd gathered - the Gleefuls with their "Forgive, Love, Unite" signs and placards showing Congressmen they were praying for, Korff's well-dressed followers who looked only slightly less ridiculous, a few flacks from the White House and tanned Republican businessmen standing around the makeshift podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Rabbi Korff announced into a microphone, "before our service begins properly, I would like to have a special announcement. Mr. Herschensohn from the White House informs me that President Nixon himself has some words for his faithful." And a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit brought forward a telephone, projecting it into a speaker.

"Hello," came the familiar Presidential rumble, the sound of which made Charlie's heart flutter with anxiety.

"We can hear you, Mr. President," Korff said. As he said this, the Apostle John and his followers dropped to one knee, the rest of the crowd looking at each other, confused or embarrassed by them. Charlie, who figured his cover had already been blown so why debase himself, refused to join them.

"As you all know, Rabbi Korff, you and your followers have been a source of strength to me throughout this trying and difficult time," the President intoned. "I know there must be thousands of you there" (true, if slightly over one thousand could be counted as "thousands") "and that you are doing everything you can to keep the fight alive. Well, I'm not a quitter and neither are you, Rabbi Korff. Neither are the rest of you in the Committee, all my friends, Reverend Moon, Reverend Gleeful, Mr. Kendall and Governor Romney, the rest of you, all your support is appreciated. My only regret is that I couldn't be there wit you today."

There was applause from members of the crowd. Rabbi Korff wiped a tear from his eye.

"We love you dearly, Mr. President, and whatever time you have to give us, we appreciate," he assured him, choking back sobs. Charlie shook his head, watching the man who had seem some friendly and assured melting into a puddle at the mere sound of Nixon's voice, wondering how one could sacrifice all their dignity in a lost cause, in a president as vile as Richard Nixon.

But he didn't have much time to ponder this, as the President hung up and the Rabbi led those present in a prayer. And while the crowd was so distracted, two toughs grabbed Charlie by both arms and rushed him into a waiting van. The Apostle John, still bent on one knee, smiled in satisfaction. More satisfied still when the thousand heads raised up, the Rabbi continued his speech, and no noticed or cared about the apostate Apostle's absence.

* * *

Charlie gasped for air after the toughs punched him in the stomach, throwing him to the back of the van. Then a third individual, a squat man in a seersucker suit, appeared clutching a revolver.

"Mr. Sheffield, you picked the absolute worst time to have a crisis of faith," the man sneered. "Now, I realize that the End's approach can cause excitement, trepidation, confusion, even in the most faithful. But we've been watching you over the past few weeks, and brother, you've hardly been the most faithful. Talking to the IRS, trying to cut a deal...now you're humiliating yourself in front of the President of the United States. Must feel very proud of yourself, huh?"

He gestured, and one of the toughs kicked Charlie violently in the chest. Charlie curled up into a ball, attempting to shield himself from further abuse. He didn't even remember the emergency device in his pocket, as if he'd have a chance to reach for it anyway. As if he wanted to give Blendin, who must have _known_ what he was getting Charlie into, the satisfaction of rescuing him at this point.

"Everything's ready for the Day of Reckoning and your doubts and conscience are going to ruin everything," the man with the gun said. "We can't have that, can we?" The two toughs shook their heads grimly, and grabbed Charlie by both arms.

The van suddenly careened off road, driving through a grassy field under a railroad bridge. Charlie realized that the end had come, and that he lacked the strength to fight and win. He only hoped some opportunity for escape would present itself.

The van came to a stop under the bridge. Charlie heard a train approaching as the toughs dragged him out of the car, wrestling him down to his knees. The third man drew his revolver and placed it behind Charlie's ear.

I'm going to die, Charlie realized. I'm going to die twenty-two years before I was born. Isn't that amazing? How many people can say that?

Then he thought of Dipper, and Mabel, and Wendy, and Gravity Falls, and all his friends and family and coworkers waiting for him back in 2018. Especially Mabel. He told himself that he wouldn't let Mabel down, that he wouldn't make her bury a boyfriend on a mission. He couldn't live with himself.

Well, evidently he wouldn't live anyway. But the sentiment was right.

The train grew louder as it came closer, shaking the trestles of the bridge. Charlie heard the man with the gun say something, no doubt the sort of sinister, faux-witty quip you'd expect from a cheap villain. But Charlie didn't care to hear it. Instead, he was concentrated on how to escape.

The train whistle shrieked overhead. The toughs, startled, ever so slightly loosened their grips. And Charlie felt the gun barrel slip momentarily away from his head.

Now or never, he told himself, summoning all the strength he could possess. Praying that whatever his own weaknesses, Roger Sheffield was more of a man than him.

With a suddenness that surprised even himself, Charlie wrenched one arm free from the first tough and smacked him across the face, then smashed his leg upwards into the second's groin. The second cried out but maintained a death grip, until Charlie turned his free hand and gouged the cultist's eye. He cried out in agony and fell backwards into the dirt, screaming.

The first thug regained his balance and stood ready to tackle Charlie. Charlie, staggering to his feet, trying to shake loose the sleepiness in his leg, squared off as if to fight. He felt a surge of adrenaline, then a thought: holy shit, Charlie, look at this guy! He's twice your size and he'll kill you with his bare hands.

So Charlie seized upon a second option: flee!

Charlie took off towards the woods, running as fast as his legs could carry him. To Charlie's shock, the goons barely tried to chase him. The man with a gun shouted something and fired a few rounds, all of which went wild; Charlie heard one bullet smack into a tree a few inches from his head.

Still, Charlie ran. He didn't want to take any chances, even though his flank broke out in excruciating pain, his muscles cramped and tore, his breath rasped out from his chest. He ran until his feet sank into a swamp, then pulled his legs loose onto the shores, leaving his shoes behind.

He didn't hear his tormentors pursuing him, didn't hear any voices or gunshots or anything. He assumed he was safe. But he also realized that he was alone, that he didn't know where he was, and had only the vaguest idea of what he was supposed to accomplish from here. How he could get in touch with Mabel and her friends and do what he'd been sent to do.

Belatedly he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out Blendin's signalling device. And he found that it had been smashed to fragments, and no longer worked.

Charlie laughed incredulously for a long moment, then tossed the damn thing into the swamp. He eyeballed a curious turtle creeping towards him, enjoying, however fleetingly, the sight of something pleasant. After the morning he'd just had, he needed it. And more than anything, he thought that's what Mabel would want him to.


	16. Chapter 16

**July 24th, 1974**

 **Washington, DC**

 **4:30 pm**

"Oh my gosh, that story had the most **beautiful** ending!" Mabel squealed. "What color was the turtle? What was its name? Did you adopt it? Are you friends for all time now?"

"Mabel, I don't think that should be your takeaway from this," Dipper scolded.

"It isn't!" Mabel assured him. "I'm just happy that Charlie's okay. How did you get through that alive? Are you hurt?" She gave him a bear hug.

"Gotta say man, I'm pretty impressed," Wendy said. "I mean, someone pulled a gun on me and I had to beam out of there."

"Would have if I could have," Charlie said. "It's not a question of brave. Plus I ran."

"After totally beating up those two meanies!" Mabel assured him. "I **told** you you were a hero. I even made you a sweater. And Mabel's sweaters don't lie!"

"Maybe hanging around you guys has done some good," Charlie suggested. "Some of your badass rubbed off on me."

"Don't sell yourself short, man," Wendy said. "You've done a pretty good job hanging with us before now."

"At this point," Dipper interjected, "I think we can start piecing things together. Wheels within wheels, here. So, the President, or someone close to the President, is working with the Gleefuls in order to stage a terrorist attack in order to keep him in power. The Gleefuls, it sounds like, think they can use the chaos to take over and proclaim their leader God, or something. I'm still a bit puzzled at where Wendy's terrorist friends fit into this."

"They're the perfect patsies," Charlie suggested. "Either they plant the bomb themselves or they get blamed for it after the fact. Bunch of bumbling idiots with guns and bombs who'd more likely shoot their own toes off than actually hurt anyone...Sorry, Wendy."

Wendy shrugged. "I mean, you're not _wrong_..." she grumbled, thinking of how close she'd come to eating a bullet.

"Well, the point is: left wing group blows up the Capitol with the help of far-right evangelicals. Nixon takes advantage of the deadliest attack in American history to restore order at gunpoint. He can blame the attack on his political enemies and use the Leftist threat to cement himself into power. This is a classic coup d'etat strategy. The kind of thing you see in a Latin American country or somewhere in the Middle East, not the United States."

"Wheels within wheels," Dipper repeated, feeling a bit dazed as he sat back down. He remembered Dylan's words about Chile earlier. The friends looked to each other for suggestions and guidance.

Mabel asked the question everyone was thinking: "What do we do from here? I mean, Wendy's not with her friends any more..." (At this point, Wendy was tiring of them calling those murderous whack jobs "her friends," even in jest, and visibly gritting her teeth.) "And Charlie isn't with those cultists. And I doubt either of them will be allowed back in after what happened today."

"Mabel's right," Wendy said. "We aren't gonna be able to stop this thing from the inside, as planned. We know what's gonna happen, but because of whatever time warp thing happened I'm not sure if we can stop it."

"I'm not sure about calling the FBI or the police," Charlie said, "since they're already investigating most of us. Would they believe us even if we told them?"

"And I don't trust anyone in the White House," Dipper added. "Hard to tell who's working for whom there."

"There is one thing I haven't puzzled out," Charlie asked. "How are these guys gonna get their bomb into the Capitol? I mean, they aren't just gonna waltz in with huge explosive device."

"I dunno," Wendy said. "The guys were pretty vague about their plan. Maybe disguise themselves and sneak in."

"Or have someone _let_ them in," Dipper considered. Then Mabel gasped, remembering what she'd discovered earlier.

"Guys, there is someone here in Congress who's working with the Gleefuls," she said. "Someone..."

A loud knock on the office door, startling everyone. Mabel slowly unlocked the door and popped her head out.

"Hey Chelsea, what's up?"

"Uh, Ms. Holtzman wants a minute," her assistant said.

"Umm, okay. One sec." Mabel shut the door and frantically started flailing around. "Eek! Now there's another Congressperson coming in here! One of the ones I talked to earlier! One of the ones voting for impeachment! What's she gonna do if she sees me in here with all of you weirdos..."

"Gee, thanks," Wendy muttered.

"You know what I mean!" Mabel said, her voice a little too loud. "You work for the President, you're a cult person, you are, I dunno, a terrorist?"

"This is like the beginning of a bar joke," Dipper admitted.

"Just let her in," Charlie said quietly. "I mean, this isn't...Wait, Holtzman? Liz Holtzman?"

Mabel nodded. And Charlie let out an historical fanboy scream that made Dipper and Wendy cringe.

"Jeez, and you people think I'm a nerd?" Dipper muttered to Wendy.

"All right Chelsea, I'll meet her out there," Mabel thought, stepping outside of her office and closing the door.

"Of course we didn't think of that," Dipper said, shaking his head. "Man, this has been one hell of a stressful day. And we still don't know what we're gonna do from here."

"I mean, Mabel has to be here for the hearings tonight, right?" Wendy asked. "People are gonna notice if a Congresswoman disappears during an impeachment debate."

"Is Mabel speaking tonight?" Charlie asked expectantly. "If I recall, tonight they'll start letting everyone give fifteen minute statements..."

Dipper and Wendy glared at him. Was he _really_ thinking about playing History Tourist right now? After everything through just that day?

"Dude, there are more important things to worry about right now," Wendy said.

"You're right," Charlie admitted, "but Mabel has to be here anyway. So, I just thought..."

Mabel reentered the room and closed the door again. "Liz wants me to have dinner with her and Barbara downstairs. And Charlie, I asked her if a friend could join us, and she said yes!"

Charlie looked at Dipper and Wendy, then smiled. "Well, I might as well have some fun today," he said.

"We're gonna pop downstairs for food," Mabel said, clasping Charlie's hand and leading him out the door. "You guys are welcome to come along, or...I dunno, maybe get something yourself?"

"I don't think I actually ate anything for lunch today," Dipper admitted, looking to Wendy. "I could use some food."

Wendy thought about this for a long moment. She was fully in business mode right now, ready to kick some ass and save the world. But all she'd had to eat since this morning were a few squishy french fries at that disgusting diner with an FBI agent staring her down. Would the world really come to a stop if she and Dipper took a break to grab a bite? Was it worth the risk?

"Deal," she said finally. "But, maybe we could do something other than cafeteria food."

"Umm, sure," Dipper said, a bit surprised. "What did you have in mind?"

"Come on Dip, this is a big city, there are plenty of restaurants around here," she said. "I mean, if Charlie and Mabel get a little time to enjoy themselves..."

Dipper smiled. "Okay, but I'm not sure I have much money..."

Mabel popped her head back. "Did someone say money?" She rushed in and opened her desk drawer, pulling out a large wallet filled with bills. She handed Dipper three hundred dollar bills. "Maybe you can go back to my place and get something dressier," she said to Wendy. "I mean, some of the restaurants around here are really shi-shi, and I don't know if they'll let you in..."

"Dressed like a hippie?" Wendy said.

"I mean, you look great!" Mabel clarified. "But..."

"No, I get it," Wendy said.

"And hey," Mabel said, "looks like I have reservations here for something called Old Ebbitt Grill. Fancy Victorian boarding house-turned-restaurant. You guys take 'em." She held out the reservations and waived them at her friend, humming.

"Umm, you sure you and Charlie...?" Wendy said.

"Nah, we'll be busy here," Mabel assured her. "There will be plenty of time for fancy restaurants and real dates once we get back to 2018. We need to strategize! You two have been thinking and running and fighting all day, live a little!"

"Okay, Mabel..." Dipper said.

"LIVE!" Mabel repeated, thrusting the reservations into their hand.

"Okay, okay," Dipper said. "Guess we know where we're gonna eat."

"And, that's not all!" Mabel announced melodramatically. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a house key, then gave it to Wendy. "I'll have Chelsea bring our car around! You can go back to my place and find a dress that's appropriate for a night on the town!"

"Gee...thanks, Mabel," Wendy said, a little taken aback.

"Don't thank me, thank Ariel Schuyler!" Mabel announced. "Now get outta here, you two! Have food, have fun and _then_ we can save the world!"

Mabel started running out of the office. But then Dipper grabbed her arm and pulled her back for a moment.

"Hey Mabel," he said. "I know you're stressing out about the impeachment vote and having to give a speech and all that. Just remember: you're right. I mean, maybe these jerks don't know it, but everyone in 2018 knows how things turned out. Don't worry about what anyone says otherwise."

"Thanks, bro-bro!" Mabel said. "I mean, it seems silly when you put it like _that_ , but when everyone's twisting your arm and shouting different things at you..." She sighed. "I wish Wendy and I could have traded places."

Wendy arched an eyebrow. "Wait a sec, you _want_ to be mixed up with some bomb-throwing nutcases?"

Mabel thought this through for a moment. "Point taken! I'll see you guys later!"

"Good luck," Dipper said.

"Knock 'em dead, Mabes!" Wendy added. "We'll be rooting for you. Mabel, Mabel, Mabel!"

"You guys," Mabel laughed, then exited into the hallway.

And Dipper and Wendy stood alone in the office and looked at each other.

"She'll be fine," Wendy assured Dipper. "With all that theater stuff she did in school, she was born to play a politician."

Dipper nodded and said nothing, then rested his head on Wendy's shoulder.

"How you feelin', man?" she said, hugging him with one arm.

"Really, really, really, really, _really_ tired," he admitted.

"Day's not over yet," Wendy said. "I mean, the world's about to end! Might as well catch some fun before the Apocalypse happens."

Dipper nodded, glanced his girlfriend's smiling face, then impulsively gave Wendy a passionate kiss right in the middle of Mabel's office. Wendy was surprised, but went along with it.

"That could have been better-timed," Dipper muttered anxiously afterwards, staring at the floor.

"Nah man, seize the moment," Wendy told him, and kissed him gently on the forehead.

* * *

Charlie was waiting in the hallway for Mabel to make her arrangements, watching various congresspeople walking through the halls, to and from their office. It was people watching of the most exciting kind, as he tried to identify people he knew only from history books.

Is that Mo Udall? Charlie wondered as a gangly man in a gray suit bounded past. That's **definitely** Barry Goldwater, he thought as he watched the irascible Arizonian walk down the hallway, muttering profanities under his breath. Probably best not to bother him... Then he thought about the fact that he, incognito, would be meeting Liz Holtzman and Barbara Jordan, and who knew who else, with Mabel on his arm. And wondered if this was how rock groupies and movie star fans feel.

His excitement shriveled up when he spotted a silver-haired Congressman walk past, shooting him a blank look of recognition. But that wasn't what bothered Charlie. For he saw a short, squat man in a seersucker suit accompanying him...No, it _couldn't_ be.

But it was.

"Well, Apostle Simon, imagine running into you," the Congressman said, extending a hand. "My goodness, I would have thought Miss Schuyler a lost cause, and certainly that she wouldn't be spending time with anyone of _our_ persuasion."

"It doesn't hurt to try," Charlie said. "The Lord needs every vote He can get, after all..."

The Congressman bowed his head in respect; Charlie dumbly aped him.

"Myself and our colleague Elisha were planning to get some steaks at the Capitol Grille," he said. And Charlie and the seersucker man locked eyes and blanched in mutual recognition and visible discomfort.

"Care to join us?" the Congressman asked.

Before Charlie could sputter an answer, Mabel came out and spotted Pemberton. She winced, then forced a grin and came up beside Charlie.

"Mr. Pemberton! I suppose you haven't met my friend, ah, Charlie," Mabel said, forgetting Charlie's pseudonym in the heat of the moment.

"Charlie?" Pemberton muttered, turning to Elisha who shrugged.

"We're going to join Liz Holtzman and Barbara Jordan for dinner," Mabel said, grabbing Charlie's arm.

"You're wasting your time trying to change their votes," Pemberton warned with friendly condescension. Elisha just glowered in disbelief.

"Pssh, who said anything about voting?" Mabel said, waving her hand dismissively. "Just a couple of gals, and I guess a guy, hanging out and being awesome together!"

Pemberton stared open-mouthed at her.

"Well...that is certainly understandable," Pemberton said. "I suppose I am a bit confused, though," he admitted. "Simon, could we have a word alone?"

Charlie watched Elisha's face light up in alarm.

"Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Miss Schuyler," Charlie said smugly. "We're all people here."

"That's right! Unless you're some kinda demon, Mr. Pemberton," Mabel joked, ribbing him.

"I was not the last time I checked," Pemberton said indulgently, though Elisha's face evinced horror at their flippancy. "I just think it strange that a member of our Church would be consorting with congressional representatives who were, ah, not likely to support the President?"

"It's a free country, bub," Charlie said. After the morning's events, he relished tweaking these righteous assholes. Of course, now that he knew who precisely he was speaking to, he could wield another weapon:

"Right of free association, and all that. I believe that's the precise argument you used when voting against the Civil Rights Act ten years ago?"

"Wait, **what**?" Mabel asked, shooting Pemberton a look of hatred. "You did - _why_?"

"Our good friend Mr. Pemberton does not believe that black children in his home district have the right to attend the same schools as white children. Offends his white supremacist conscience, no doubt."

"No, I do not believe the Federal government has the right to impose integration by court order and Federal marshal," Pemberton said gently, though Charlie could tell he'd touched a nerve. "It is disruptive, it is unconstitutional, and..."

"I suppose you are forgetting _Brown vs. Board_ ," Charlie interrupted, "and showing your contempt for the law. Which is a common failing of law-and-order politicians, isn't it? You don't actually believe in following the law, but you love arbitrarily enforcing it to retain your power and keep a boot heel on the throat of the underprivileged."

"Where did you come by these views, boy?" Pemberton demanded, blood rushing to his face. "I am not aware that the Reverend Gleeful espoused such radical opinions, unless I missed a sermon or two."

"He does not, but I am my own man," Charlie sneered. "Isn't that right, Elisha?" And Elisha could do nothing but shoot daggers at him.

"Miss Schuyler, it has been a delight," Pemberton said, struggling to maintain his composure. "If you will excuse me, my friend and I will take our leave. I look forward to your performance tonight."

"Yeah, bye," Mabel said curtly. She watched the two men walk into Pemberton's office.

"Jeez, Charlie!" Mabel gasped. "I can't believe it. He voted _against_ the Civil Rights Act? But he seems so nice! How could he do that?"

"He does _seem_ nice," Charlie agreed. "Very courtly, the Southern gentleman through and through. But you see Mabel, those are the worst kinds of people. They have the same prejudices as the angry and the stupid, but they dress them up in noble sounding language about constitutionality and states rights and all that garbage and make it sound respectable. Well, screw that. He's no difference than some frothing bigot ranting about halal turkeys or Mexicans raping everyone."

"Well, if he's a racist _and_ involved with these Gleeful creeps, he's no friend of mine," Mabel sneered, then wiped her hand on her suit before grabbing Charlie's arm. "Let's go meet with some awesome ladies who aren't mean old bigots!"

"Mabel, I thought you'd never ask," Charlie said. And he thought that, if nothing else fun happened today, at least he could have this as a takeaway.

* * *

Alexander Haig returned early from San Clemente that evening. After heading back to the White House, he received a phone call from "a friend at the Pentagon" that one of their operatives had caught another White House aide, Dylan Shawcross, trading the Gideon I plan with an unidentified third party at Union Station. Now he went into the White House Situation Room with two men, the Secretaries of State and Defense. He didn't fully trust either, but at this point he had no choice.

"Dr. Kissinger," Haig growled to his old boss, "I thought that this plan had been destroyed several years ago. I recall when I was your aide that I personally oversaw the destruction of all extant copies."

"Well, you know that it is impossible to keep anything in the National Security Council secret," Kissinger croaked apologetically. "If there was even one copy that escaped destruction, there is no doubt that someone thought it could be leveraged to their advantage in a situation like this. At the very least, it makes a nice splashy newspaper headline."

"That was my thought," Haig said. "Another White House horror revealed before the world. But this plan was just updated last month. I checked it with Admiral Moorer and a few other staffers. Apparently this was a really hush-hush thing, with only a handful of people on the NSC and at the Pentagon involved."

"What are you saying, Al?" Defense Secretary Schlesinger asked.

"The President went behind our backs to reauthorize this insane plan," Haig said. "This is the nightmare scenario we were talking about."

Haig stood silent for a moment, allowing the impact of his words to sink in. Kissinger and Schlesinger sat back in their chairs, struggling to absorb the meaning.

"Some time in the next few days, there is going to be some triggering event in the District or nearby, that will enable the President to implement this plan without anyone knowing about it. Without any safeguards or checks from Congress, from DOD or the military, from any of us. He made sure to keep us in the dark because he knew we wouldn't approve it."

"It seems to me our peerless leader has flipped out," Kissinger said, interjecting a tone of wary levity into the discussion. Neither Haig nor Schlesinger found it very amusing.

"Al, I am working to have all presidential orders for use of military force routed and double-checked through my office before they carried out," Schlesinger said. "That directive's already been given to the appropriate commanders as quietly as possible."

"That does us no good if the President has back channels to get his orders carried anyway," Haig said. "He is the Commander-in-Chief, after all, and anyone who disobeys him faces a court martial or worse. This is a very delicate matter we're going to deal with."

Haig sat down, thinking for a long moment before he continued.

"Several years ago, I read a really bad Fletcher Knebel novel about a president who goes insane and tries to start a nuclear war, install himself as dictator, all that before some heroic busybody stops him. Crazy science fiction nonsense, I thought - not well-written or interesting, besides which, it would never come to that in this country. But look where we are. Hopefully this never comes off, the President changes his mind or fate intervenes, and all of this will just be a burp in a hurricane that nobody'll ever know about. Otherwise, we might have to save the country from the President. And I, for one, do not relish that prospect."

"There is another concern I have," Kissinger said. "Someone on the White House staff obtained a copy of this document. And he was apprehended after trading it with someone else. Which makes me wonder who has it now?"

Haig stared at Kissinger for a long, anxious moment. He did not have an answer. But he knew that it was imperative to find out.


	17. Chapter 17

**July 24th, 1974**

 **6:00 pm**

Mabel couldn't stop thinking about the hearings. It seemed odd to her, when she thought about it: the prospect of time traveling and saving the world didn't really faze her. She'd done both of those things before, after all. But for some reason, the thought of stepping into the shoes of someone with a part to play in history's biggest drama still bothered her.

Charlie clearly enjoyed himself, starstruck and amazed that he was speaking to Barbara Jordan and Liz Holtzman, asking them questions that they'd probably heard a million times before but that they indulgently answered anyway. Holtzman kept scribbling on her notepad, spending every minute trying to get her argument down just so, while Jordan seemed cool, unconcerned and prepared. (It probably helped that she wouldn't have to speak until the next night.) And Mabel hovered on the fringe of their conversation, occasionally interjecting and smiling, mostly trapped in her own head.

She kept thinking about how much she'd tried to balance out silliness and smartness, creativity and maturity, especially as the years went. Pacifica, in her bullying days, was hardly the only person who'd dismissed Mabel as "silly," or worse (stupid or retarded were other labels used at school, unfair even beyond the cruelty; Mabel got perfectly fine grades, even in subjects she hated). On her good days, Mabel accepted this as part of who she was, something she could fold and fit into circumstance rather than hide or worry about. But on bad days... And if _this_ wasn't a bad day, what was?

Eventually her colleagues seemed to notice her problems. "Ariel, are you doing okay?" Jordan asked. "You're a lot more quiet now than you've been all day."

"Oh, just nerves," Mabel assured her. Though Charlie seemed worried about her, too, and put a hand softly on her leg. Mabel gratefully wrapped her hand around his, ignoring the smirks that the congresswomen exchanged.

"You've been a firecracker all day, Ariel," Holtzman added, peaking out over her glasses. "Never seen someone so worked up, so excited about hearings as you were earlier. And now you're all...Pppt."

"It's just that, I mean..." Mabel struggled to frame her dilemma in a way her colleagues could understand. "I've never given a speech like this before, in front of so many people...And so many people will be angry at me if I mess up."

"I can't believe you're having stage fright!" Charlie said with gentle incredulity. Though Mabel shot him a hurt look; even her boyfriend, she thought, seemed not to grasp that just because you're outgoing and excitable doesn't mean you can't be insecure about this. And that stung.

"We're all freshmen here," Jordan said, "and I don't think any of us have much experience in impeaching presidents. This is virtually unprecedented, unless one of the old codgers in the leadership survived Andrew Johnson."

"You'll do fine," Holtzman reassured her. "I've seen you give great speeches on matters of far less import. Just pretend that you're speaking about trade deals or what have you."

Like Mabel knew about _that_. But she smiled and nodded.

"I don't wanna make a fool of myself, I guess," Mabel muttered. "Won't people think I'm...silly?"

"People will think that no matter how serious you try to be," Jordan said. "You've got many things against you: you are a politician, and you'll piss off a big chunk of the public no matter what you say or how you say it. You're a woman, which means fewer people are gonna take you seriously anyway. And you're having to make a difficult decision about an issue no one has any experience with. I cannot emphasize that enough."

"Mabe-Ariel," Charlie said, catching himself at the last moment, "think of it this way. You're a performer. You've been theatrical all your life! Just imagine this as the role of a lifetime! Ariel Schuyler, kick-butt Congresswoman, going before the nation to announce why the President of the United States is a fraud and a criminal and must go. Sure, you'll have a bigger stage than you did before, but it's the same basic thing! Just pretend you're performing in high school, or...speaking before your constituents, and have fun."

"One piece of I advice I will add," Jordan interrupted in dry, unsmiling deadpan. "Do **not** , under any circumstances, picture the audience naked. That hearing room will be packed, it will 120 degrees even with the air conditioning, and everyone will be sweating their asses off under their clothes. That is _not_ a picture you need bothering you while you decide the fate of the country."

Mabel laughed uproariously at this; the note of levity, even delivered in Jordan's schoolmarm tones, finally convinced her this would be okay. She looked at Charlie, who smiled encouragement, and Liz Holtzman, who smiled and hid her face behind her notepad before, and realized they were right. This was nothing to worry about.

"Just remember one other thing," Charlie added. "You are on the right side of history. No matter what the Sandmans or Wiggins or that polished peckerwood Pemberton tell you. You're doing the right thing." And Mabel smiled and hugged him with one arm.

"You guys know just what to say!" Mabel cheered. "Thank you so much!"

As she sank back into her chair, feeling grateful, a long-haired, mustachioed reporter with a camera came up. "Ladies, I apologize for interrupting your dinner, but would you mind if I snapped a few pictures of you?" he asked. "I mean, women of the Judiciary Committee getting ready for crunch time - seems like a natural angle."

"Sure!" Mabel shouted, answering a bit too loudly for all of them. "Come here, ladies!"

Mabel ran across the table and stood in between Jordan and Holtzman, who looked askance at each other. At the last moment, Mabel put her arms around both of her fellow Congresswomen and...stuck her tongue out? "Laaaaaaaaa!"

Charlie was initially aghast, then burst out into laughter. He couldn't wait to see that picture in the history books!

Eventually, Mabel's colleagues settled her down enough to make more formal, or at least less silly pictures of them at work, posing with notepads, glasses and pencils held just so, smiles furtive or thoughtful. But she didn't care overmuch. She even asked the photographer if he'd take a few pictures of her and Charlie, or Charlie with Barbara and Liz, pictures she knew he'd treasure, even if they wouldn't actually show him in the picture.

After the impromptu, world-historical scrapbookortunity, Mabel felt a lot better. She reverted to her usual chatty self, exhausting her colleagues (and Charlie) with Mabel-esque small talk and jokes. This would be a piece of cake, she told herself. Nothing to worry about.

Now, there was just the small matter of saving of the world.

* * *

Dipper and Wendy enjoyed their fancy dinner in a swanky Victorian-style restaurant, even if the food was a bit rich for their blood. "This chicken is okay," Wendy muttered through forkfuls, "but man, why did they need to puree all the vegetables? Do they think it's fancy or something? Might as well chew 'em up and spit them out on the plate! Would save time, at least."

"It's the best food Mabel can buy," Dipper chuckled, picking at his meal. "This swordfish is pretty good, actually. Didn't think I'd like it, but here we are."

"Gimme a burger or some mac'n'cheese any day," Wendy said.

"Well, there are burgers on the menu," Dipper reminded her.

"Dude, can you imagine what this place puts on their burgers?" Wendy asked, making a disgusted face. "Like, farm-raised bison with baby goat cheese and tomatoes grown with the finest sparkled water."

"That actually sounds delicious," Dipper said, and the two laughed. He looked at Wendy, who was wearing a blue sleeveless dress borrowed from Mabel/Ariel, and commented:

"You look really nice, Wen," Dipper said.

"Thanks. So do you." She smiled, then thought about something that had been bugging her all day. "This whole 'seeing ourselves as ourselves' thing still seems weird, though, doesn't it?"

"I mean, Blendin says we're still us, technically...I think. It's just an illusion for everyone else that they think we're whoever we're supposed to be."

"Time travel makes my brain hurt," Wendy said, rubbing her temples.

The two enjoyed their food and lingered for a bit, trying to discuss strategy based on what they knew.

"So, Mabel says there's a Congress-creep working for the Gleefuls," Dipper said. "Man, that makes things...even more complicated."

"Does she know who it is?" Wendy asked.

"Yeah, I think it was that guy who was arguing with Charlie when we left," Dipper said.

"Great, another Southerner," Wendy muttered.

"Hey, some southerners are cool," Dipper said. "Just not the ones we tend to run into."

"Do you know what your friends...sorry, the terrorists are going to do?"

"I dunno, man. Every time I tried prying strategy from them, they acted like I was a moron and mocked me. What a bunch of dickheads. Anywho, they're gonna smuggle a nuclear device into the Capitol, it sounds like, and let things go from there."

"That's about what Charlie said," Dipper asked. "So the Gleefuls get the nuclear weapon or whatever..."

"...And give it to my guys," Wendy finished his thought. "Yeah, that's what it sounds like. Plausible deniability or whatever."

"And your guys are just going to let them do this?"

"I dunno, man! It's crazy!" Wendy threw her arms up in the air. "This whole thing...like, I'm not political at all, and I knew jack shit about the '70s besides disco and stuff before today, but I know enough to know that this shouldn't be happening. Christian kooks and radical lefties and the White House all conniving to destroy the world...Like, if you put this in a movie or something they'd throw it out as ridiculous!"

"Yeah, but it's happening, and here we are."

The two stopped talking as a waitress appeared, filling their glasses with ice water.

"Guess where I'm hung up is, none of us are on the inside any more," Wendy said. "Like, maybe when me and Charlie were in deep cover or whatever we could stop these guys from the inside, but now...And I'm not sure we know enough to stop it from happening."

"Maybe we could call the cops on these people," Dipper suggested.

"Yeah, I thought about that," Wendy said. "But the cops are already watching us...both of us," she reminded him. "And that bugs me."

"Can I interest either of you in dessert?" the waitress asked, reappearing out of nowhere with a cheery smile.

"What do you say, Wen?" Dipper said.

Wendy smiled. "Why the hell not?"

* * *

They drove aimlessly around DC, lost in traffic, not sure if they should go to their apartment (which was probably being watched) or Mabel's place (which was farther away) or find somewhere else to hang out (a hotel maybe?) where they could strategize. Dipper thought about something else, too...

"When's Mabel speaking tonight?" Dipper asked.

"Good question," Wendy said. "Hadn't thought to ask. She said the hearings start at, like, 8:00 I think. They'll probably be on TV or something."

"Oh, I'm sure they will," Dipper said. "There are only four networks, you know. I wanna watch, but I don't wanna miss a chance to stop anything from going down..."

"That's the hard part," Wendy agreed. "Mind if I turn on the radio?" she asked. Dipper shrugged, and she started fiddling

"...the Supreme Court ruled 8-0 today that the President must turn over the subpoenaed White House tapes..."

"Lame," Wendy said, changing the station. After a few more, she landed on a station playing "Somebody To Love."

"Man, I actually _know_ this song!" Wendy said, and started awkwardly singing along with Grace Slick. The song ended after a moment, then turned into something by The Carpenters which Wendy didn't recognize and instantly hated. But she didn't bother changing the dial again.

"Hope we can pull this off," Dipper muttered.

"We've seen worse," Wendy reassured him. The two smiled at each other as Dipper turned a corner.

Not until the last second did they see a strange figure, all in black, step out from the shadows, carrying a small silver device. Barely enough time to react...

"Dipper, look out!" And Dipper slammed on the brakes.

The figure didn't move. Instead it aimed its device and fired...

...and Dipper and Wendy felt a weird, reality-bending sensation, a flash of blue-and-white...It reminded them both of those Weirdness Bubbles from several summers ago, only more concentrated and quicker...

...and suddenly they found themselves driving through a brick wall and headed towards another. Dipper screamed and turned the car a sharp left at the last second, narrowly averting disaster.

"What the FUCK just happened?" Wendy shouted.

"I dunno, I dunno, I dunno!" Dipper stammered, still trying to collect his thoughts.

"Jeez, it's like we teleported or something!" Wendy said.

"Wait..." Dipper tried to calm himself, pulling the car to a stop at the end of the street. "That's it!"

"What's it?" Wendy asked, still jolted. "What are you talking about?"

"Wendy...that's what happened to the real Rick and Charlotte!"

The two got out of the car and walked back down the street, looking around, seeing how they'd somehow driven through a building without crashing, only to face a dead-end across the street.

"That guy..." Wendy muttered, at last realizing. "He must have fired something that caught those two off-guard, sent them through space and time...and they crashed."

"Blendin said they weren't supposed to crash, that nothing was supposed to happen to them that night," Dipper reminded her. "And presumably they did something to keep this mess from happening the next day."

"But who _was_ it?" Wendy demanded. "And what if he comes back?"

Dipper thought grimly. He had no answer.

"We'll deal with that when it happens," he said.

* * *

It took them a little while to realize where they were. Wendy finally recognized some of the buildings, especially when she spotted a familiar, filthy McDonald's at the end of a street. Arlington.

"God, that McDonald's is like the nexus of the universe," Wendy groaned.

"You'd think they could at least pick, like, an Applebees or something," Dipper said. "Now which way to get back to DC?"

"Maybe we should stay around here," Wendy said. "Not sure I feel safe anywhere they might think to look for us. Look for a hotel."

"You think your buddies will take you back after whatever went down?" Dipper nudged her.

"Dude, don't even **joke** about that," Wendy rolled her eyes.

They drove a few more blocks, halting at a stop sign. They could just make out the Capitol in the distance. And as Dipper prepared to pull ahead, they saw a shaggy-haired man running across the street in front of them. He tripped over his own feet and landed on the hood of the car.

"Man, creeps are just falling out of the sky tonight," Dipper said. He hesitated, not sure if he should get out and help or drive away as fast as possible.

The man answered the question for them. He looked into the windshield, scanned Dipper indifferently...then locked eyes with Wendy. The two recognized each other instantly.

Bill.

Before Wendy could say anything, he started raising a handgun towards them. Dipper screamed and switched the gearshift into reverse as he fired a shot through the windshield, sprinkling Dipper and Wendy with glass shards.

Dipper hit the gas pedal and sped backwards, then went forward again. Bill staggered to his feet and aimed his gun at the car, firing another round which smashed into the hood. Dipper didn't bother stopping this time, ramming into the shooter and knocking him to the ground. They saw Bill, somehow still alive, roll out of the way, onto the sidewalk, as they sped into the distance.

The two kids stared straight ahead, stunned, as they drove on down the dark road.

"One of your friends?" Dipper said, as coolly as he could manage.

"Yep," Wendy agreed, still trembling. She had several small cuts on her face and forehead from the glass.

"Well, at least nothing else could go wrong tonight," Dipper sighed.

Within a few moments, a bunch of lights flashed on in front of them, blinding Dipper and Wendy. Dipper tried backing away, only to see two unmarked sedans boxing him in. As his lights adjusted to the light, Dipper could see several military-style vehicles, men in suits with sub-machine guns blocking their path.

"Dude, you had to say something, didn't you?" Wendy screamed. Dipper just stared ahead.

A man in a military uniform approached Dipper's window and gestured for him to roll it down. "Turn the engine off and come with us," he commanded.

"Hey man, I have my ID..." Dipper started.

"We know who you are," the soldier barked. "Anderson, Richard, work at the White House, up to your ass in all kinds of treasonable conduct. You're coming with us, now. Either you come peacefully, or under arrest. Your call."

Dipper looked plaintively at Wendy, then stepped out of the automobile. Wendy followed him.

"Dude, you're not going anywhere without me," she shouted as Dipper followed the officer towards the trucks.

"Ma'am, this doesn't concern you," the officer said.

"The hell it doesn't!" Wendy insisted. "I don't know what this is, but if it involves Rick, it involves me too."

The officer looked at Dipper and Wendy, debating with himself what to do. Maybe she was just a loudmouthed, loyal girlfriend; maybe she was an accomplice. Better safe, he thought, than sorry.

"All right Red, you come too," he said finally. And Wendy walked up to Dipper.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Dipper asked her, disbelieving.

"Hey, if we're going down, we go together," Wendy promised him. "That's how it's always worked, right?"

Dipper smiled and nodded, knowing now that they'd be okay. And the two locked hands as they entered one of the sedans.


	18. Chapter 18

**July 24th, 1974**

 **7:15 pm**

 **Arlington, VA**

The blackened windows of their sedan and the twilight darkness didn't prevent Dipper and Wendy from recognizing the Pentagon. This made Dipper sink with dread. Bad enough if he were being arrested by the FBI or local cops and had to sit in jail while the fate of the world unfolded beyond his grasp. What the hell was he doing there?

"Aren't you violating the Posse Commitatus Act?" Dipper asked the driver. "You know, the military can't be used to arrest private citizens on US soil."

"Dipper, like these guys care about the law," Wendy growled under her breath.

"Who said anything about arrest?" the driver said sternly - just about the only words he said during the whole 20-minute drive.

They entered through a garage, passed a clearance point where they were searched and wanded for weapons (somehow they didn't catch the emergency devices), then were escorted through the basement into a secluded room, guarded by MPs. They were seated in two chairs and left alone for several minutes.

"So, what do you think?" Wendy asked, trying to break the ice. "We gonna catch a bullet here or what?"

"Or we're gonna disappear to a black site and never be heard from again," Dipper mused. "That wasn't my idea of how this would go."

"I mean, if it comes to that I'll pick a fight and make them shoot me," Wendy said, summoning whatever bravado she had left. "None of this burying me under the jail, torturing me for information I don't have biz."

"That wouldn't be smart, Wen," Dipper said gently, though his face registered alarm. "Would be smarter to go to jail and figure out a way how to escape."

Wendy smiled. "Guess I'm not thinking straight," she said. "That's why I roll with you, I guess."

The two shared a brief moment of happiness, then the door creaked open. Dipper craned his head and saw, to his chagrin and amazement...General Haig. And he instantly bristled in terror.

"Imagine my surprise when I hear that, after I leave the White House this morning, I'm notified, one of my low-level staffers disappears without a trace," Haig said in his usual declarative fashion. "Around the same time another of my aides is caught at Union Station leaking classified information to someone. Now, that strikes me as a bit too convenient for a coincidence. What about you, Mr. Anderson?"

Haig didn't wait for a response before barking out his next comment. "And now I find that you're consorting with radical terrorists like Miss Hurt here, and officials from the Church of Revelations. Quite fascinating company you keep! And now you're dragging a Congresswoman - a Congresswoman on the Judiciary Committee, mind you! - into it as well. This is quite a nifty little operation you've got going here. You must think I'm pretty stupid if you thought you could slip this past me and my staff."

"No, sir," Dipper sputtered. Wendy merely frowned; she sized Haig up as a bully of the sort she'd dealt with too many times before.

"So, let's talk," Haig said, sitting on the table and leaning close to Dipper, close enough to smell aftershave and hatred. "Already know that you're working with the Gleefuls to get the IRS off their backs. But that's at the President's direction, and that's small potatoes anyway. FBI has transcripts of you talking with this trash" - at this, Wendy tensed and looked ready to jump out of the seat and throttle him - "about God knows what it. So, what I want to know is: what the hell is going on? What are you up to? And who's asking you to do it?"

Haig's stare burned into Dipper's eyes, intimidating him into sweaty silence. Wendy decided into interject.

"Dude, nobody's _asking_ us to do anything," she said. "We're all on the butt end of a lot of weird, shady crap and we're trying to work it out."

Haig continued staring at Dipper, acknowledging the mouthy young woman only through a faintly visible smirk.

"We've been trying to make sense of this conspiracy," Wendy continued, screwing up her courage. "Some people in the White House, some people in Congress, some terrorists and these Gleeful creeps are all working together for some kind of terrorist attack. Like, in the immediate future."

"And you didn't think to tell the proper authorities all this _before_ it's set to take place?" Haig asked, still not looking at Wendy. "Last minute conscience pangs, I suppose?"

"What was I _supposed_ to do?" Wendy yelled, louder than she intended. "Call up the FBI and say, 'Hello, I'm a radical with a criminal record who's been hanging out with these bomb-throwing nutcases. Hey guess what, my pals are working with some religious nuts and government officials to trigger a military coup. This isn't at all suspicious or weird, we're totally legit.'" Wendy folded her arms. "How do you think **that** would have gone down, exactly? Your pals in the FBI would have, liked, thrown me in the booby hatch before they listened to anything I had to say. It's so crazy even I don't completely believe it"

Haig finally broke away from Dipper and rounded on Wendy. He showed her as much menace as he could, but Wendy remained unintimidated.

"Since you already know, ma'am, I've spent the past few days trying to clean this shit up," Haig said, letting his guard down the tiniest bit. "For weeks now I've been hearing rumors of this sort of thing, from all corners, but I put it down to paranoia - dark fantasies - nightmares about a government crisis. People who read _Seven Days in May_ one too many times or see Pinochet on the news and play the _It Can Happen Here_ card. Then I found out that Gideon I hadn't been destroyed when I directed it, and that raised my suspicions. And now that it's been revised..."

He left that thought hanging in the air. Dipper and Wendy exchanged a glance, no longer afraid but unsure where he was going.

"I didn't believe it. Still don't believe it, really," he muttered. "But at the very least, something is going to happen, and we need to take precautions." He paused for a long time. "I knew getting involved with these damned oddball groups like the Moonies and the Gleefuls would lead to trouble. Goddammit, I thought they were just exploiting this for petty gain. But this bastard actually thinks he _is_ the Messiah! And God knows he has a lot of friends around Washington and the country who'd let it happen. I just never thought that one of them would be living in the White House."

"So...what do you want from us?" Dipper asked.

"Well, you're basically confirming my darkest fears," Haig replied, turning away from them, clearly weighing his options in his head.

"That's a start. Both of you have lots of indictable offenses on your record - you, Miss Hurt, in particular - and we could go after your friend Miss Schuyler as well. Of course, she already has some secrets that aren't really that secret to begin with...in her private life, say...and some people would certainly be interested in learning about."

"What does that mean?" Wendy demanded.

"You don't know about that Kiwi woman she's 'friends' with? Imagine that coming out in the middle of an impeachment hearing."

Dipper and Wendy had no idea what he was talking about.

"We're doing our best to limit the damage from something like this happening." Haig segued away from a threat into another topic altogether. "The Cabinet has defense mechanisms to prevent the President from losing his mind and destroying the world in the process. Of course, he's still Commander-in-Chief, and he still has the nuclear football. What we're asking of you is to brief us on everything you know, first of all, and then we'll determine our next course of action."

"Are you going to keep us here?" Dipper asked. "For how long?"

"You're not in much position to bargain," Haig said.

"Dunno about that," Dipper responded, winking at Wendy. Haig glowered at him again.

"Sounds to me like _we_ have something you want," Dipper explained. "And there's no incentive for us to give it to you unless there's something in it for us."

Wendy was alternately terrified and proud of her little dork's bluff. She could easily think of ways that Haig and his buddies might get the information without their cooperating, but kept her mouth shut. _Go Dipper_ , she rooted in her mind.

Haig decided not to call his bluff. "What do you have in mind?" he asked.

"Just let us go," he said. "We'll tell you everything we know right now, so you can act on it. We'll get to spend tonight wrapping us loose ends and doing what we can to stop this thing from happening. After that, indict us, do whatever you need to, it's more important that nobody blows up the Capitol than we stay out of prison long term."

Haig considered this for a long, anxious moment. "How do I know we can trust you?" he asked finally.

"You don't," Dipper said, smiling slyly. "We're just going to have to trust each other."

Haig nodded slightly at Dipper, appreciating the guts and folly of a fellow poker player. Wendy, for her part, had rarely felt so proud of Dipper as she did in that moment. Under the table they slapped low fives, then zipped their mouths in unison.

"All right, let's get started," Haig said. He knocked loudly on the desk, and a young aide in uniform entered with a notepad and a tape recorder.

* * *

Agent Yamato grew anxious, then frustrated, then worried, then angry about lack of word from his informant. Not because he gave a damn about Charlotte Hurt, who to him was just another loudmouthed punk with delusions of grandeur (what would the world in 1974 be without them?). But because he feared that she would tip them off about the FBI surveillance and lose his one lead on the activities of this group.

Did he really think the PLV was a serious threat? Probably not. Yet if even a fraction of what Charlotte had told him was true, he had reason to worry. Maybe they weren't going to nuke the Capitol building or whatever she'd said. But there was still a better-than-decent chance that they were up to something. Even a bomb blowing up a waste basket was a Federal crime, an act of terrorism. And Yamato wasn't about to wait until it exploded to worry about _where_ it exploded.

So he tracked down the address of the PLV hideout, receiving a hastily-scribbled warrant from a local judge and authorization from his Section Chief. He arrived with two officers from the Arlington PD. When they arrived, Yamato instantly noticed that the door was open. Not waiting for a formal warning, he kicked it open, the two officers following after him, hands on their holsters.

They found a crime scene. Dirk Lieberman lay in the middle of the room with two small-caliber bullets in his head. One of the Uzis lay on the ground next to him, with a few shell casings laying besides it; Yamato looked up and saw a few bullet holes in the ceiling. There were also books and other items knocked over, the room messed up though not completely trashed.

Drawing his pistol, Yamato stalked into the kitchen, then the bathroom. He saw that the window was open. Then he looked down and saw a man in a seersucker suit lying in a pool of blood, a pistol still gripped in his dead hand. He had no ID, only a wallet with a fake driver's license, about $60 in cash, and a ring on his finger with the Gleeful insignia.

"Two men down," Yamato shouted, rushing back into the living room. He looked and saw one of the police officers calling in the crime. He was trying to piece together what had happened, belatedly realizing that maybe Charlotte Hurt hadn't sold him a bill of goods after all...these Gleeful creeps really were up to something.

He didn't have time to process that information, let alone act on it, as one of the officers absently fondled a pool cue on the table. Yamato saw a strange flash of light trailing behind it; he may have recognized what it meant, or possibly not; it didn't matter anyway.

Because within moments, a bomb concealed underneath the pool table exploded. The explosion was so powerful, so violent that it rocked the apartment to its foundations, blowing out the windows and shattering glass on cars and buildings across the street. None of the officers lived long enough to feel any pain from the explosion, or to piece together what it meant.

* * *

That evening, the Reverend Charles Gleeful met with his attorney, Bob Plimpton, in his hideaway in Paraguay. Plimpton couldn't stop discussing the impending IRS charges, how even if they couldn't arrest him they could easily freeze the assets of the church. Gleeful nodded politely, but he was, at best, half-listening. There were bigger things on his mind.

He had a small villa in the expanses of La Gran Chaco, the semiarid region along Paraguay's border with Bolivia, once the site of South America's bloodiest, most pointless conflict. He had a small coterie of aides and followers, not to mention a half-dozen armed guards, with him; his family was safely stashed away in Florida where his wife and son could play the innocent victims of government oppression. A sinecure paid to General Stroessner, the country's brutal strongman, ensured that no one would bother him, and anyone who tried was fair game to be shot by his hired guns.

"They're saying you owe $321,000 in unpaid taxes," Plimpton read from a document. "Two counts of income tax evasion. The US Attorney in Florida is also weighing charges of obstruction of justice for your attempting to hide and silence witnesses. I'm concerned that they'll try nabbing you with a perjury charge for that deposition you gave two years ago..."

The Reverend Gleeful was hiding out abroad out of fear. He didn't fear the IRS, necessarily, though that was his explanation, his short-term rationale, a convenient cover. That problem could be taken care of...and was, so long as he affected to support President Nixon. He remembered meeting with the President twice, an awkward meeting where he assured Nixon that God was working through him to secure his lasting reign of America. He couldn't tell whether Nixon found the sentiment comforting or disturbing; he didn't care. The meeting was to help himself, not the President.

"There's also a concern that one of your assistants, Apostle Simon, has been in contact with both the IRS and the FBI, and may have turned against you as an informant..."

What the Reverend feared was Armageddon. He did not want to be in the United States when Seraph occurred; too big a risk, even for a Messiah. (His wife and child...well, they were an acceptable sacrifice for the Day of Reckoning. Women, after all, could be replaced; new children could be born. Only he was essential.) All the dominoes would fall into place, the government would collapse, anarchy would reign. Then he would dramatically reenter the country, greeted by his disciples, and proclaim the Second Coming. Turn America into his (not His, Reverend Gleeful's) dominion on Earth.

It was an insane scheme, which is why he only shared it with his most trusted disciples. He recognized the earthly risks he incurred for even thinking about it. But the heavenly rewards, he decided, more than compensated. What were a few million lives to securing his dominion on Earth?

"...And the political situation in the United States, I'm sad to relate, is growing worse every day. As we speak, Congress is meeting to debate five articles of impeachment against the President. The situation may drag on for weeks, months, but it looks like the end. And if Nixon's forced to leave office, I doubt you'll get any more cooperation in squelching these investigations..."

"Bob," he interrupted with a wave of his hand. "This is a time of tribulation, as you say. And I appreciate your concern and your efforts to head off these difficulties at the pass, as it were. Unfortunately, I am less concerned with the fate of President Nixon than the fate of the Planet Earth.

"You remember many years ago, when I first heard my calling? I'm sure you've heard it before. Korea, it was, when our platoon was cut off, swarmed like bees by the Reds. Lieutenant killed, Sergeant dead, everyone but me and four others dead or wounded, no one fighting. I got hit in the stomach, collapsed bleeding into the frozen ground. Then I saw the Light, heard the Voice, telling me that my Mission had just begun.

"And you know what happened after that. An air strike, or was it God's hand? A surge of adrenaline, a miraculous second wind, or was it the Lord working within me? Either way I shot my way out of that death trap and saved my platoon from utter destruction. They gave me a Silver Star and told me that I helped turn the tide of that battle, saved the 1st Marine Division from complete annihilation. All that for a young corporal in his mid-20s. Heady stuff.

"That battlefield was a battlefield of men, flesh and blood, iron and steel. But more than that, it was the conflict between Freedom and Communism in its simplest, purest form. And it would have been wonderful, if our leaders hadn't punted it away and settled for stalemate. And the same thing in Vietnam, all over again! It is madness.

"So, you tell me that the end is near? I've known that for a long time. As long as a single Communist crawls upon this Earth, Armageddon is a mere blink away. Now we have the opportunity to take the bull by the horns and ensure Armageddon, when it happens, goes our way!"

Plimpton blanched, then forced a grimace. He'd heard similar speeches from his client before, all bluster about bringing about the End Times and saving America and the world from its traducers. He didn't think any more of it now than he did when he first met Charles Gleeful, an especially charismatic but mostly unremarkable circuit preacher, in Fort Lauderdale all those years ago. The Reverend would be out of a job if he started thinking everything was fine.

"I appreciate those concerns, Reverend," he said evenly. "But I'm tasked with more earthly concerns, as you know. And, I guess the short term prospect as that these issues aren't go anywhere any time soon."

"I appreciate that, Bob," Gleeful said, smiling. "Hopefully, those things will not matter in the long run. A flea will not bother you forever, but cancer will.

Plimpton smiled back at him. _What a nut_ , he thought to himself, wondering how he'd possibly stayed with this client for so many years.

Then he remembered: money.

Then Joaquin, a middle-aged Paraguayan in a faux-military outfit, entered the room.

"Reverend Gleeful, I need a moment of your time, please," he said in hasty Spanish.

"Sure thing," Gleeful answered in Spanish. "Bob," he said, raising himself out of his chair, "thanks for coming here." He shook hands with his attorney. "I appreciate your willingness to keep one foot of my enterprise on the ground while I go searching in the Heavens for answers."

"It is my pleasure," Plimpton said, _as long as you pay me_ , he added silently. And he closed up his briefcase and exited, hoping that he could reach Asuncion in time for a red-eye back to Atlanta.

"Received a message from our friend in San Clemente," Joaquin said as soon as he was out of ear shot. "The pace is quickening. Seraph will go tomorrow, so long as you give the word."

Gleeful nodded. "Tell our friends we will do what we must to save the country," he said. Joaquin bowed and exited the room, leaving Reverend Gleeful to himself.

 _I was hoping for more time to get everything ready_ , Gleeful thought to himself, looking at a stylized Mexican painting of Quetzalcoatl slaying the Aztecs that hung on the wall of his study. _This is precipitous. But God, and Richard Nixon, work in mysterious ways. Time waits for no man._

And he dropped to his knees and looked heavenward, waiting for the Divine Guidance, the confirmation of His will, to strike him. He waited for nearly twenty minutes before he rose back up, then marched back over to his chair. He thumbed open his Bible and opened it to Exodus, a passage he'd been studying intently for the past few weeks:

"This is what the Lord says: About midnight I will go throughout Egypt. Every firstborn son in Egypt will die, from the firstborn son of Pharaoh, who sits on the throne, to the firstborn of the slave girl, who is at her hand mill, and all the firstborn of the cattle as well. There will be loud wailing throughout Egypt - worse than there has ever been or ever will be again."

And the Reverend Charles Gleeful closed his eyes in satisfaction that he would be the man to cause that wailing, and that when it stopped, the people of the United States of America must turn to him.


	19. Chapter 19

**July 24th, 1974**

 **Washington, DC**

 **7:45 pm**

The hearing room was absolutely packed, with more spectators than your average football game. Mabel saw hundreds of people crammed into the seats, standing around the aisles, men and women of all ages and backgrounds, fascinated by the prospect of watching their government at work. She saw journalists scribbling on notepads and snapping photographs of the Congressmen and women as they filed into their seats, camera crews setting up to ensure maximum coverage of the event. She felt the sweltering July heat invading the room; so many people made the air conditioning moot, and Mabel felt sweat under her arms and down her back. She saw some of the Congressmen loosening their ties or discreetly unfastening buttons, saw Liz Holtzman (sitting in the row ahead of her) had changed into a comfy-looking sleeveless vest, wondered why she (or Ariel Schuyler, she supposed) wasn't smart enough.

As she slid into her seat, five seats to the left of the chairman - between Charlie Sandman, her sneering tormentor, and Tom Railsback, the anguished, friendly moderate Republican - she felt a pang of anxiety return. She no longer doubted that she would vote for impeachment, but she still wondered how persuasive a case she could make. She had a day's worth of discussions, a speech hastily written by Tyler and Chelsea, a notepad full of thoughts and scribbles and doodles, a head full of half-digested arguments and facts presented by Charlie and Grunkle Stan and others. And she would be the last Republican scheduled to speak this evening, due to a fluke in the schedule - the party leadership wanted its sole woman on the Committee to speak on the first night, let come what may, in hopes of scoring some cheap partisan points (Liz Holtzman and Barbara Jordan, Democrats, wouldn't speak until the second day).

She tried to spot Charlie in the crowd, but couldn't - too many people in there, all packed too close together to tell one apart from another. But she remember what he'd told her - she was right. History proved she was right. Just go with the flow. Be Mabel.

A heavy drop of sweat ran down her face. A multitude of muttered voices surrounded her, familiar faces blurring with strangers. She looked to Charlie Sandman, pulling out a pair of spectacles to make himself look intellectual; Tom Railsback, looking glumly down at the floor; saw Liz Holtzman, still doodling away on her notepad. Then she saw Hamilton Fish, as grim as Railsback, pushing past several Congressmen towards Mabel's seat.

"Ariel, quick news," Fish said, leaning across the desk. "Your appropriation's getting added to HR 618. Talked with the bill's author and it's up for a vote next week."

"That's great!" Mabel said, shaking his hand energetically. "Did you get the whole $100,000?"

"Actually it was $125,000," Fish replied, smiling. "Guess I'm more persuasive than I thought."

 **BANG! BANG! BANG!**

The gavel rapped and Fish slid back over to his seat, slipping past Railsback and Charlie Wiggins, who fussed with his hair. Mabel slumped down at her desk, sighing audibly. Here was the moment of truth.

"The Committee will come to order." And the chamber suddenly faded into hushed, tense silence.

And Peter Rodino, the Chairman, looking harried and fretful as ever, began his opening oration. He began with references to some Roman guy Mabel had never heard of, a "personal note" that made Mabel wonder how personal it truly was, if he was so old he might actually have known the guy. Then the New Jersey Democrat got to the point, his high, reedy voice struggling to remain even as he presented:

"We have reached the moment when we are ready to debate resolutions whether or not the Committee on the Judiciary should recommend that the House of Representatives adopt articles calling for the impeachment of Richard M. Nixon. Make no mistake about it. This is a turning point, whatever we decide. Our judgment is not concerned with an individual but with a system of constitutional government."

And so Mabel listened for the next few hours, alternately fascinated and bored, depending on the speaker and the argument. Congressman after Congressman intoning the righteousness of their specific stance, whether for or against impeachment, citing a dense record of evidence Mabel was only loosely familiar with, making formidable reference to the Constitution and English common law and Greek and Roman thinkers, appeals to greater justice.

At first she took notes, following the proceedings as best she could, writing down key points and clever phrases, until she eventually started doodling and made a scrawl showing her asleep with six big-headed Congressmen all yammering at once. She captioned it: **"WHAT HATH NIXON WROUGHT?"**

She skimmed over her own speech, wondering if she should bother to deliver it as written. It seemed perfectly legible and legalistic, it was probably fine for Ariel Schuyler and just right for a history book or a CSPAN re-run, but it didn't seem very Mabel. She had decided, thanks to her friends, that she would be herself, even if it meant making the official transcripts of the hearings read a little different than they would otherwise. And so she slid the speech under her notepad.

 _I've got this,_ Mabel told herself, staring at the ceiling as some guy from Texas droned on and another drop of sweat streaked her hair. Now the waiting was the hard part.

* * *

Somewhere in Alexandria, Becky Dierdorf and Chandler Monahan knelt on the floor of a warehouse with sacks over their heads, hands bound behind their backs. A man brusquely removed them, revealing bruises on Chandler's face and a black eye for Becky. They looked furious rage at their tormentor, the Apostle Paul, who stood over them with an automatic pistol and a cruel, knowing smile. Two of the Church's trainers stood behind him with blunt instruments in hand.

"You have no call to be wrathful towards your saviors," Paul sneered, relishing the power he held over these Satanic subversives. "If your friends hadn't been so nervous, there needn't have been any violence tonight. And don't forget, we lost a friend as much as you did. Still, bygones be bygones, I say. He who casts the first stone, or whatever the Book says. We're working towards the same goal, and what happened tonight needn't change it."

"What do you want from us?" Becky demanded.

"Very simple. We were relying on your group to carry out the Seraph plan, but obviously, from where we stand that's no longer operational. However, we have something even better."

He gestured with his gun, and one of the trainers opened a door. Someone pushed in a huge bomb on a crate, what the two radicals instantly recognized as an atomic weapon.

"Armageddon," Paul announced with smugness and not a little awe.

"How the hell did you get a hold of it?" Charlie asked.

"Let's just say the Lord provides," Paul announced. "This weapon is a bit old, very out-of-date - it's about the yield of the bomb that destroyed Nagasaki in '45. Of course, that's more than enough for our purposes. There's a problem though, and I feel ashamed to admit it."

"What's that?" Becky asked.

"The bomb's designed to trigger an airborne explosion," the Apostle said. "And...as you know, our plan was to destroy the Capitol from the inside. We need to find a way to detonate it, and..."

Becky looked at Chandler, realizing why these clean-cut Jesus freaks hadn't just shot the both of them with Dirk.

"Can you do it?" Paul demanded.

"I can try," Chandler said.

"Can you do it?" Paul asked again.

"Of course," Chandler said, though his voice quavered, indicating uncertainty. He'd built and blown up all kinds of bombs, but never an atomic one.

"What about me?" Becky demanded. "What do you need _me_ for?"

"We'll have something for you to do, as well," Paul assured her. "For now though, you can get some sleep. Or entertain yourself. Or maybe reconsider your faith and devote yourself to the Reverend Gleeful?"

Becky uttered a harsh, cruel laugh at that suggestion. Paul nodded thoughtfully, then punched her in the throat, causing the young woman to collapse sputtering to the ground.

"All of us, even your friend here, even subversive, misguided, heretic whores like yourself," he snarled to Becky, still coughing, "have a role in God's plan. We'll let you know tomorrow."

He gestured with his head. Charlie rose to his feet, and one of the trainers came up behind him, cutting the rope with a penknife. He gave Becky a plaintive look, then followed Paul out of the room. The aides wheeled the bomb after them, the trainers locking the door behind them. Leaving Becky all alone with her pain and her thoughts, wondering if she really wanted to help these creeps achieve their Armageddon.

But, she thought, what choice did she have?

* * *

"Mr. Chairman," a Wisconsin Democrat named Robert Kastenmeier righteously proclaimed, "we have labored long and hard in an effort to be fair to the President and to those among us who must sit in judgment but may not share common views. We must now decide how to vote - for or against impeachment. It is not our duty to attempt to assess whether Mr. Nixon committed common crimes. That is a determination which ultimately lies elsewhere."

Mabel found it increasingly hard to hide her emotions. She was less bored now than weighted down with the dread of a forthcoming performance; she tapped her foot, wavered in her seat, struggled to steady herself lest her colleagues notice. A feeling that she'd felt before in school, in drama, that almost always abated when the performance actually started, but until then was unbearable.

She remembered when her class did _Footloose_ and she was a swing and a chorus member, being grateful that she took part in almost every dance and chorus number and, in at least one performance, managed to land a small speaking part. How hard it was waiting backstage with your classmates-turned-costars, worrying about every possible misstep and mistake, until the curtain went up and the faux-Kenny Loggins tune started, and suddenly she was one of about thirty students singing and dancing flawlessly.

"In my own case, my decision has been made. I have concluded, after careful consideration of all the evidence, that President Nixon must be impeached and removed from office..."

This was a bit different, but, Mabel realized, not much. Once she stopped paying attention to the words - the repetitive, pompous, numbing words - of her colleagues, she enjoyed watching how they were all playing to the galleries, relished noting the differences in their styles. The Democrats played the card of righteous indignation, invoking the Constitution and the rule of law and acting like the defenders of truth, justice and the American way. (None more, she thought, than Father Drinan, who actually wore his priest's cassock to the hearing! What flare! **That** Mabel could admire.) The conservative Republicans, who tried to coolly dismiss the charges with a cranky indifference, a demand for facts and specificity as if everything that came before was immaterial. The moderate Republicans, who wrung their hands and weighed the warring forces of party loyalty and common decency. The Southern Democrats, also undecided but largely lacking the visible angst of their Republican counterparts, inscrutable and measured until it came their turn to thunder their invective and agony before the nation in elegant magnolia prose.

"It is important to draw a clear distinction between saving the man and saving the office..."

All making a spectacle of themselves, each with their own modest affectations and personal flourishes, but all basically the same.

"I would suggest that the President's actions are designed to save one person, Mr. Nixon..."

All performers, really, regardless of party and politics and personality. That realization helped Mabel immensely. These men and women who she thought were above her in any way were really no more than actors on the greatest stage imaginable. And if they could do it, she could do it.

That made things so much _easier_! And now she practically anticipated her own speech!

"In my view, Richard Nixon has shown disrespect for the Citizens of the Nation and he has violated their Constitution and their laws, engaging in official wrongdoing..."

She knew Charlie was watching. She hoped Dipper and Wendy were, too. And maybe, somewhere in the mists of New Jersey or wherever he was, her Grunkle Stan, who had waxed indignant about this event and this night so many times in the present, something she'd never really cared about before. If he knew she were here, doing this, how proud would he be!

"Society, through its elected representatives, must condemn this conduct. Otherwise, we will cease to have a government of laws."

And with _that_ line, Mabel was again hit with the enormity of the whole thing, that there was something more at stake than mere style points. But before she could feel too down about it, a nervous-looking page rushed up behind Chairman Rodino and whispered something into his ear. Rodino's face flashed fear; nonetheless he controlled himself, waiting until Kastenmeier finished his peroration before he interrupted.

"The Chair is going to be compelled to recess for a period of time," he said in his usual harried tones, "and the Chair will state that the meeting will resume at the call of the Chair, but it is necessary that we do recess for a period of time."

He gaveled the meeting, causing a mild uproar in the crowd. Several Capitol policemen entered, guiding people towards the exit.

Mabel stayed at her seat for a moment, unsure what was going on. She saw Rodino walk behind her with a grim, terrified look on his face. She turned to Tom Railsback.

"Any idea what's going on?"

"Some crank threatening to blow up the building," Railsback muttered.

"Always something," Charles Sandman added as he walked past, leaving his spectacles on his desk. "Some crank or another needs to spoil the fun. Especially when **I** was about to start."

"Yeah, they're all out to ruin your good time," Railsback joked, and Sandman patted him on the arm.

"Everything all right, Ms. Schuyler?"

Mabel looked over and saw Charlie Wiggins looking across the row at her, smiling as friendly as he could.

"This thing happens, you know," Wiggins added. "Comes with the job, I guess. Look forward to your speech later." And he walked off to join his colleagues.

For a moment Mabel panicked, wondering if something had happened to bump up events, to make the bombing and the Apocalypse occur a day earlier than planned. Then she convinced herself that no, it wasn't, her colleagues were right; this was just a thing that happened in Congress.

But then she watched the massed crowd of people before her, the congresspeople grumpily making their way to the exits as police herded bystanders outside, and thought about the damage that even a small bomb could do in here. And she wondered.

* * *

As soon as they'd given Al Haig what he'd wanted, Dipper and Mabel were allowed to leave the Pentagon. Instead of returning to their place - too risky, they decided - they stopped off at a hotel, using more of Mabel's money to buy a room. They sat on the twin bed for a long moment, staring.

"Rough day, huh?" Wendy asked.

"We've had worse," Dipper said, unbuttoning his coat and throwing it on a chair.

Wendy laid back on the bed and groaned. "Still don't know how we're gonna pull this off, dude," she said. "At least this means the FBI's off our backs for whatever we do tomorrow. But there's still a lot we need to figure out."

"First step is to meet up with Mabel, then show up at the Capitol, then we'll go from there," Dipper said. "As long as we know _where_ things will go down, we should be able to figure out how. Would be nice if we could, you know, stop before then, but...after everything that's happened today, I don't wanna press our luck."

"Still thinking back to what happened with Bill," she said, and Dipper reeled back in disbelief.

"The terrorist dude, _not_ the triangle," she clarified. "The, uh, the guy who blew out our windshield."

"Yeah, he was running from something," Dipper answered, visibly relieved that they wouldn't have to deal with _**him**_ , too. "Maybe the police caught up with those guys."

"Maybe," Wendy muttered. But she wasn't so sure.

Dipper poured each of them a drink of beer from the mini-bar; Wendy pounded it down but Dipper blanched and gagged, still unused to the taste of alcohol. Wendy teased him. "Dude, seriously? You're eighteen."

"Yeah, but..."

"And this is, like, Budweiser, not some kinda hardcore, 90 proof whiskey!" she laughed uproariously at his upturned nose and grossed-out face.

"Let me turn on the news," Dipper said, trying to clean the taste off his tongue. "Maybe we'll see Mabel..."

Instead they saw the sight of police and firemen sifting through a burning building. A grim anchor intoned: "...an FBI agent, Kenneth Yamato, was among the dead, along with two Arlington police officers, Lionel Chandler and Barney Scott. The other two victims have not yet been identified."

"...Holy shit!" Wendy said. "Yamato! Saito, whatever. That's the guy who was harassing me all day. And now..."

"Must have raided your friends' hideout," Dipper guessed. "I mean, that's two problems dealt with..."

"Dude, five people are dead," Wendy snapped. "Don't talk that way. And in any case, we know Bill at least got away..."

Dipper shrugged in apology and turned back towards the TV screen. A lady reporter in a plaid coat and red dress was interviewing...Ariel Schuyler.

"Mabel?" Dipper said. He and Wendy leaned in towards the television.

"All I know, Carol, is that there's a lot on the line tonight," Mabel said. "Shouldn't matter if I'm a Republican or even a woman, what matters is that we make the right decision for the country."

"And what **is** your decision?" the reporter asked. "You're still considered one of the swing votes."

"You'll see," Mabel replied, winking into the camera, before she tore herself away.

"Well, she seems...huh." Wendy said. "A lot more confident than she was earlier, I guess. Must be growing into the role."

"She could take it to Broadway when we get back," Dipper agreed, fishing around in a drawer.

Wendy took another drink of beer, watching the reporter interview some other sneering blowhard.

"Do you think we can get room service at this place?" Dipper said. "I know we had a big dinner, but..."

"Hey, I could use some junk right about now," Wendy agreed. "And hey, it's not every day you get to see your sister make history."

Dipper felt a pang of pride at her sister, smiled more broadly than he had all day, momentarily forgetting about their mission. But not, he thought, about food.

"What do you think, Wendy? Burgers?"

* * *

When the furor died down, when the threat had been determined work of a crank instead of very real cultists, Mabel returned to her seat, still a little shaken by the whole thing. She'd been disappointed that she couldn't find Charlie, still hadn't seen him, still had no idea where Dipper and Wendy were. Then she saw a note on her desk, next to her notepad, and read it:

 _Remember, you're playing a Schuyler. Some people say you're intense, that you're insane. But you're really Mabel, and you can do it! Knock 'em dead._

 _\- Charlie._

As Rodino gaveled the hearing back to order, she felt a flush of gratitude and warmth - and a flash of belated inspiration. She smiled and told herself again: _I got this_.

 _Author's note: Bonus chapter tonight! Might not get a chance to write tomorrow, so might as well; we'll see if Mabel can pull off the speech of her life, with a little help from her friends (and possibly Lin-Manuel Miranda?). Thanks all for reading, following and reviewing, and I hope you're enjoying everything as the ending slowly drifts into view._


	20. Chapter 20

**July 24th, 1974**

 **10:00 pm**

Wendy and Dipper sat on the edge of their bed, munching room service cheeseburgers as the hearing came back to order. Wendy had changed back into her white t-shirt while Dipper still wore his dress shirt and pants. The news commentators seemed confused, mentioning something about a bomb, which made Dipper and Wendy's hearts skip. Fortunately it seemed to be a crank, and everything had resumed without much difficulty.

"When's Mabel gonna speak?" Wendy asked with a mouthful of beef and cheese.

"I dunno," Dipper said. "Would be helpful if they had a program or schedule or something about what's going on tonight. Hopefully she'll come up soon."

"Or if we had our smartphones!" Wendy joked.

"Yeah, it's not that this isn't interesting," she continued, "it's just...kinda dull. I mean, they're all basically saying the same things, one after another."

"That's politics," Dipper said wryly. He grabbed a ketchup packet and tore it open with his teeth.

"The Chair recognizes the gentleman from New Jersey," came a voice on the television. And the camera panned over to a leering, bearish man in a blue suit. The caption read: **CHARLES SANDMAN (R-NJ).**

"Huh. That's the guy Grunkle Stan likes to rant about," Dipper noted, accidentally squirting his ketchup on the bed sheet.

"Dude, that is the worst aim I've ever seen!" Wendy laughed. "Man, are there any napkins? I'm not sleeping in a bed covered in ketchup!"

"Sorry," Dipper said apologetically. "Guess I'll just have to eat this burger dry."

"There's cheese on it, dude, it can't be _that_ dry," Wendy said, scrounging around for a tissue or napkin.

"Well, let's see if Mr. Sandman is as obnoxious as Stan says," Dipper complained. When Wendy wasn't looking, he sneaked another ketchup packet and squirted it on his plate, successfully this time. Then he pushed forward his burger and grimaced as the meat slid out of the buns. Tonight he just couldn't win.

* * *

Mabel hadn't much liked Sandman through their personal, face-to-face interactions, where he came off as condescending at best and a bully at worst. Somehow, he was even more risible playing to the galleries. His voice, never pleasant, raised to an abrasive, whining snarl as he veered between sarcasm, unalloyed insults and painful attempts at humor. Sitting near him, Mabel gained an insight into politics that she hadn't even really thought about before: now, she could understand where monsters and demagogues came from.

"I think to say," he began, "that this is the most unusual proceeding that I have ever been a part of would be a tremendous understatement. The thing that amuses me is that as important as it is, and even though it has been held in confidence behind closed doors, what I read in the papers from day to day leads me to believe that I could not have been there. It is the joke of the century."

He lambasted his colleagues for leaking to the press, for making up their minds in advance, for the supposed paucity of evidence. Unlike the President's other defenders on the committee, he made no effort to be gracious or polite, to appeal to intellect rather than emotion. He was a political gut fighter, winking and nodding to Richard Nixon's Deplorables that he too was one of them, that he also believed in Richard Nixon (even if he protested otherwise in his statement), and he would go down fighting for them, even if meant soiling his good name and his career in the process.

"Prove me to the evidence is clear and convincing," he demanded, "and I will vote to impeach. But you cannot and should not under any circumstance attempt to remove the highest office in the world for anything less than clear and convincing, anything less than something highly serious, and that is what I propose to do!"

Was he _serious_ with this? Mabel wondered, glancing down at her notepad. Even in her own limited exposure to the scandal, she _knew_ the evidence against the President was overwhelming, irrefutable. But then, she reflected, she had the benefit of four decades of hindsight to judge, and no real constituency to play to except, perhaps, Blendin and Charlie.

"Maybe in the time that is remaining, someone, somehow, will point out the fact that I am only human and I am not infallible." (Mabel's flash of empathy vanished instantly, watching his snide trucker's grin reappear.) "Maybe I overlooked something! Maybe there is a tie-in with the President!"

She glanced over at Charlie Wiggins, the more genteel and friendly of the Nixon die-hards, who stared thoughtfully into space, occasionally nodding along when he felt Sandman made a valid or interesting point. Then she doodled a picture of Sandman as an ugly, horned monster vomiting out lies. To distract herself from his unpleasant premise, she drew a picture of herself cheerfully giving a speech and the audience swooning.

"There are 37 of you," Sandman continued. "Give me that information. Give it to 202 million Americans, because up to this moment you have not!"

 _Don't worry Mabel,_ she told herself, your turn is coming up soon. _And once you're done, America will sing Ariel Schuyler's name!_

* * *

"Man, this guy is a _jackass_!" Wendy said. "Does he even have an argument or what?"

"Since when do politicians need an argument to make an argument?" Dipper reasoned. "Most of them just like to hear themselves talk."

"True, but...jeez, dude, I can't stand this."

Now Sandman was waving an issue of _Newsweek_ before the camera and claiming it unfairly represented the Presidential tapes. His argument about media bias sounded too familiar to Wendy, who rolled her eyes and fell back on the bed.

"Ugh! Forty years, same old shit," she muttered.

Dipper walked over to the TV and turned the volume down as Sandman droned on. After a minute the camera found a much less annoying, if colorless Democrat from California to take over. And he slipped back on the bed as Wendy cleaned up their plates and threw them out.

"Burgers weren't too bad," Wendy admitted. "Bit pricey though." And she plopped back down on the bed next to Dipper, putting an arm around his shoulder.

"You ready to get under the covers?" she asked him suggestively. And Dipper sat straight up and started sweating, to Wendy's delight.

"Umm...do you mean...I mean, I dunno...?"

Wendy laughed. "Are you **always** going to be this way when we do stuff together? Come on, man." She punched him playfully.

"Anyway, nah, this doesn't seem like the right time and place," she continued as she slipped her legs under the covers. "I don't want our first time to be forty years in the past - man, how weird would **that** be? But, I could still use some company." And she patted the mattress next to her, smiling warmly.

Dipper, still dressed, still flustered, obeyed, skittering under the blanket and discreetly taking off his khakis. The two wrapped an arm around each other and stared blankly at the television for several minutes without speaking. Then Wendy yawned.

"Now these blowhards gotta finish their speeches soon," Wendy complained again, "or I'm gonna fall asleep. We're here to see Mabel, dammit!"

"Yeah," Dipper added lamely. As always, he enjoyed the softness and warmth of Wendy's embrace, the light coppery smell of her hair. But right now, despite his girlfriend laying next to him, despite everything _else_ that was going on, he thought about his sister.

 _Knock 'em dead, Mabel_ , he thought. And a smile crept on his face, excited and nervous to see how she would change history.

* * *

"The Chair recognizes the gentlelady from New York, Ms. Schuyler, for the purpose of general debate, not to exceed a period of 15 minutes."

As Mr. Rodino pronounced those words, all eyes and ears in America shifted towards Mabel Pines. She felt a stirring in her chest, a dizziness in her head, a last gasp of nervousness as she psychically felt the gravity of her position. Then she read Charlie's note again, looked down at her own doodles, and reminded herself one last time:

 _I got this._

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, a bit too loudly, leaning into the microphone, bumping it lightly against her nose as she began. "Everyone has talked upon the gravity of tonight's proceedings. There's no doubt impeaching a president is a serious issue for everyone. It's not one that I take lightly, any more than my colleagues. Let's look it another way, though! As an opportunity to prove that this country works, that its government is good, and that its leaders _should be_ good. That's the ideal we should all aspire to, regardless of whether we're man or woman, white or black, Democrat or Republican, Christian or not. We didn't fight a Revolution and endure" (she silently did the math in her head) "198 years of struggle so that the government could be run by criminals."

She started modulating her voice, settling into her Performer's Groove, and continued. She referred to her notes, to the prepared speech, but mostly spoke from the heart, from the whirl of ideas and thoughts and quotes and song lyrics swirling around her head.

"I'm not sure that I can summarize the evidence better than it's already been summarized. But I can try! We know that people working for the President broke into the Watergate hotel in June of 1972. That's obvious. We know that people working for the White House paid money to keep them quiet. We know that people very close to the President were covering up evidence, obstructing the investigation, encouraging people to lie to investigators and prosecutors and to us in Congress. That's bad! The tapes are even worse! How many discussions of the President telling" (she consulted a note card for the names she needed to invoke) "Mitchell and Haldeman and the rest do we have? We even have him on tape telling... uh, John Dean that they could get a million dollars in cash to pay off the burglars! Not even people like my colleague from New Jersey dispute _that_ this happened, just what it means!

"So, after all that's been said and done, what more evidence do we **need**? Was everyone in the White House involved in this mess _except_ the President? That's crazy! This man who is so careful in micromanaging just about everything that goes through his office, everything from" (she leafed open her aides' speech) "bombing targets in Vietnam to the handling of protests and campaign rallies to... _the spray of his shower_?" (she betrayed her own credulity for a moment reading that, but quickly recovered) "Somehow, this President who tries to run every little thing himself didn't know that a few of his trusted employees ran wild and broke the law like a couple of crazy people. Now, I find **that** hard to believe!

"I don't know if the President's defenders will ever be satisfied by any argument we could make, any evidence we could present, at this point. It's like when I told my brother in school that a girl liked him, and he needs a million pieces of incontrovertible evidence to believe it. I thought I would have left that idea behind when I left high school, am I right?" (Everyone in the room chuckled at this silly, personal touch. Only a few curious reporters would discover later that Ariel Schuyler, in fact, had no brother. But Mabel Pines did!)

"One of my colleagues earlier quoted James Madison to defend the President. That seems strange to me, since Mr. Madison generally didn't think a President doing what he wanted was a good thing." (She leafed through the speech again, finding a quote she'd marked earlier.) "In Federalist No. 51, he writes: 'The accumulation of all powers, Legislative, Executive, and Judiciary, in the same hands, whether of one, a few, or many, and whether hereditary, self-appointed, or elective, may justly be pronounced the very definition of tyranny.' I think we've seen this President, through his actions and his cover-up, through his constant defiance of the courts and the Congress, through his putting himself ahead of government, has tried to steal all these tools for himself. I don't think Mr. Madison would have approved, and I don't think any of the Founders would have either."

"Another thing Mr. Madison told us..." (leaf, leaf, leaf) "Also in _The Federalist_ , unless I'm wrong! 'Justice is the end of Government. It is the end of civil society. It ever has been, and ever will be pursued, until it be obtained, or until liberty be lost in the pursuit.' And I ask my colleagues, is Justice obtained by allowing the President to violate whatever laws that he likes? By telling us that the law doesn't matter? That when the President does something, it isn't illegal, and no one can hold him accountable for anything he does, however mean or awful? I really don't think so."

"Ladies and gentlemen, these are the issues before us tonight. These issues couldn't be more important, more serious, but there's also a nobility that we should embrace rather than run away from. Don't let's feel bad about ourselves for doing what we need to do. Don't feel bad about being good people!"

Then Mabel decided to reference another source more familiar to her than James Madison, concluding with an appeal less to the law (of which she knew little) or cold logic (which was more Dipper's forte) than the heart (which she knew **very** well).

"Look around, look around, at how lucky we are to be alive right now! History is happening in Washington and we just happen to be..." (somehow, she stopped herself before she actually burst into song and violated all kinds of time anomaly rules) "The greatest government, the greatest people in the world." (then she shifted back to politician mode, with a perfect, dramatic pause) "I implore you, let's **act** like it! Let's not throw away our shot to prove it!"

And she sat down for a long, awkward moment, not sure whether the deafening silence was good or bad. It took her a minute to realize that she'd forgotten some part of congressional protocol.

"Oh, I, uh, yield my time to the Chairman."

"Thank you, Ms. Schuyler," Rodino said numbly. "The Chair will recognize Mr. Conyers from Michigan..."

Mabel sat back and tuned out, relieved and grateful that she'd managed to do it with any major slip-ups. She didn't really hear any remaining speeches; didn't need to. She closed her eyes in satisfaction.

* * *

Roughly as Mabel concluded, a lieutenant colonel at the Pentagon sent out a message to the Army Signal Corps and regional military commanders:

 **By order of Secretary SCHLESINGER, all SIGINT regarding deployment will be routed to his office for review. Special attention to be given for communications using the code words FAST PACE, GIANT LANCE, GIDEON, PRUNING KNIFE or SERAPH. These must be routed to the Secretary's office immediately. **

**All orders by the President re: deployment of military forces inside the United States, including forces authorized to deploy nuclear weapons, to be subject to review by Secretary SCHLESINGER and the National Security Council before they are acted upon.**

A reasonable precaution, but perhaps too late. For Seraph and Gideon had already gone out through non-military channels. And two companies of Marines had relocated to Quantico on the orders of General Cushman, the Commandant, just minutes before the Pentagon sent the tel ex. However much they imagined they were in charge, General Haig and the Pentagon now could only watch.

* * *

"Mabel, that was the most amazing thing I've ever seen!" Charlie said, giving her a crushing hug in the middle of the lobby, ignoring the hundreds of journalists and spectators and other congresspeople milling about. "You were on **fire** up there, girl!"

"I **told** you I had this when we started out!" Mabel laughed. "You should learn to trust me. What did I tell you when we first started dating?"

"Umm...you're always right, all the time!"

"Boop! You got it!" And she hugged him back.

"One thing," he said with dead seriousness as they pulled apart. "Did you _really_ have to quote _Hamilton_? Isn't that, like, a time paradox or something?"

"You know, I thought about that," Mabel admitted. "I wondered about it myself. But I wanted there to be a way you could look up this speech in one of your books and know it was me!"

"Oh, there's no doubt it's you!" Charlie gushed. "That was one hundred percent Mabel Pines!"

"Aww," she said, pushing his shoulder. "Stop it!"

"Ms. Schuyler," Barbara Jordan said, reaching forward to shake her hand. "I wanted to congratulate you on your speech tonight. I must admit that I had some doubts which way you would come down, but you handled it beautifully."

"I'm so glad you liked it!" Mabel beamed.

"I'll admit it isn't the speech I would have delivered," Jordan continued haughtily, "but the sentiment is right. Certainly we needed a break so much doom, gloom and Charlie Sandman."

"Ha! Well, I can't wait for your speech tomorrow," Mabel said. And Charlie nodded his assent.

"Plenty of hot air to go before they get to me," she said, before another Democrat pulled her away.

"Ariel!" another colleague approached, this time Hamilton Fish, her fellow New Yorker.

"Hi there!" Mabel said.

"Glad to see at least two Republicans tonight talking sense," he said enthusiastically. "You and Tom Railsback did a wonderful job."

"Thank you," Mabel said. "Oh, and I appreciate what you did on that bill earlier."

"My pleasure," Fish responded. "Like I said, us New Yorkers have to stick together, huh?" And he walked off.

Charlie gaped open-mouthed after him. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Is there anyone you aren't buddies with?"

"What can I say?" Mabel shrugged and smiled.

"Miss Schuyler, that was quite a remarkable speech," a familiar Southern voice proclaimed. And the reunited couple turned and saw Mr. Pemberton, smiling and silkily patrician as ever.

"Get lost, creep," Charlie said with unrestrained rudeness. He wasn't about to let some segregationist cult member ruin their perfect moment.

"Charlie, stop!" Mabel said, forgetting to use whatever stupid pseudonym he had. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pemberton, he's...he doesn't hide his opinion at all."

"Not at all," Pemberton said indulgently. "Young men are passionate, they must say their say. But wiser men - and women, I suppose - must decide. Although I am very disappointed by your decision. I thought that we had talked you around a bit," he said, his voice taking on a melancholy task.

"Sorry, but I did what I thought was right," Mabel said, though really she had no regrets.

"Well, I did what I could," Pemberton shrugged. "Obviously you have a higher loyalty than to your country and your party and your president. I suppose I can respect that..."

Now Charlie saw Mabel's face drop, then lost his temper altogether. He stepped in front of his girlfriend

"Listen to me, you silky Southron shitheel! You don't have the monopoly on what's right and what's wrong! And God knows Richard Nixon doesn't. You should quit patronizing Ariel and treat her like what she is...a Congresswoman."

"I suppose you _do_ have a monopoly on that, young man," Pemberton smiled. "I envy you, really I do." He held out his hand and Charlie, prodded by Mabel, shook it.

And shook it. Pemberton didn't let go.

"Of course, in a day's time none of this will matter," Pemberton confided. He still smiled, but his voice dipped into a low, angry growl. "And what you or I or Miss Schuyler does will be completely irrelevant."

By now he was crushing Charlie's wrist.

"Of course, an apostate like yourself will receive the harshest judgment," Pemberton said, his voice almost a whisper. "But so long as you appeal to that...higher loyalty I spoke of, I suppose you're reconciled to it."

"Your higher loyalty is Reverend Gleeful," Charlie barked, though his voice betrayed panic. He tried to pull back and almost tripped over himself. He noticed a few onlookers starting to gather around, watching curiously. "Don't talk to me about principle when you worship a lunatic."

"All visionaries are lunatics until they succeed," Pemberton said gently. "That's why they're visionaries. I don't expect you to understand, since for a vision of this magnitude, to be achieved the Old Order must be wiped clean."

Pemberton finally released his grip. He smiled and patted the top of Charlie's hand.

"Enjoy your place in Hell," he said under his breath. Then he pulled away, walking into a TV microphone.

"Charlie...?" Mabel muttered, her voice shaking. She grabbed his shoulders from behind to steady herself.

"Well...it's nice to be reminded why we're here," he said with unconvincing bravado. "Now we can focus on making things right."

Mabel smiled and wrapped her arms around Charlie. "Giving a speech for the history books is one thing," she murmured. "But saving the world! That's a piece of cake!"

She turned him around, clutching his hands, and the two smiled and looked in each other's eyes. Someone, maybe eight people, snapped photographs of them, but they didn't seem to care.

"Let's get out of here, Charlie," Mabel said, dramatically flinging her hair over her shoulder as the cameras flashed. Charlie played along, inclining his head to show his chin towards the camera, and they power-walked through the lobby like the coolest people on Earth. Though the illusion was ruined a few moments later when Charlie stumbled over his own shoelaces, and Mabel burst into high-pitched giggles.

Some things never changed.


	21. Chapter 21

Blendin Blandin kept reliving the scene over and over again. He kept watching the car appear out of nowhere, appearing through one wall and smashing into another. Kept replaying the carnage and the helpless feeling of watching two people who should have lived long, fulfilling lives dying at the wrong time, way too young, and not being able to do anything about it. Not to mention the creeping dread of billions perishing because of his failure to spot something.

Sometimes his job was really awful.

After witnessing Richard and Charlotte's deaths about fifty times, he gave up trying to change things in Arlington. With the help of Ford and his friends back in Squad headquarters, he tried to pinpoint where in Washington or Georgetown they were when they were attacked or teleported or whatever happened. Maybe enlisting the kids wasn't such a brilliant idea after all...certainly, it seemed to mess up his ability to track disparate timelines. But it seemed like a good way to make sure things went right even if he couldn't figure it out.

Finally, he obtained a reading on their previous location in Georgetown. He managed to transport and watched the scene unfold from a different angle...a young couple casually driving down the road. Then a figure in black popped out, aiming a small device Blendin couldn't identify, opening up a wormhole in the middle of the street. The car vanishing...And he knew what happened on the other side.

Blendin wondered about the black figure. He probably couldn't interfere directly, even if it meant righting the timeline, for all the risks it might entail. But after rewinding and reliving the scenario a few more times, he realized something odd. The figure was not in fact a man, or at least not one he could identify. It was a **shadow** , a solid black form in the shape of a person.

He'd seen this happen before, he knew. But where?

* * *

"Yes, I have seen this before too," Ford confirmed, watching as Blendin replayed the "accident" for him in 20713. "Whoever set this in motion sent an Avatar through time to change the past. I've seen it done with some kind of spell or incantation multiple times. It's kind of a risk-free way of altering reality - you don't go yourself, you send an emotionless, formless agent to your bidding for you, and it only exists as long as it takes to carry out your mission."

"I thought that's what it was," Blendin said, racking his brain. "One of my first cases involved dealing with this. Someone wanted to get back at their wife, so they conjured one of these and sent them back to kill one of her ancestors three hundred years earlier. Turns out she helped develop the original smallpox vaccine, so his little act of pettiness cost billions of lives and had to be fixed."

"How did you fix it?" Ford asked.

"Umm...we didn't," Blendin admitted. "We basically did what we're doing with your kids. Sent someone back in time to patch up the timeline while worked to plug the timeline so they couldn't send another one through."

"Couldn't you just stop this from happening in the first place?" Ford demanded. "Surely you could send someone to stop whoever from sending it back."

"After it was sent, we can't do that," Blendin said. "That's a time paradox, too, since it was going to happen anyway. All we can do is patch up the damage and make sure that they don't send anything ."

Ford groaned and smacked his forehead, irritated by Time Travel's special brand of logic.

"Have you pinpointed a suspect?" he asked after a long, aggravated pause.

"Yes," Blendin responded, bringing up a video on another screen. "Bud Gleeful."

And he showed footage of Bud in his room, kneeling in front of a huge photograph of his father, muttering an incantation from a book. A dust appeared, which swirled around and slowly formed the black figure beside him. He muttered instructions until the figure glowed with blue light and vanished.

"How strange," Ford said. "I've known Bud Gleeful, he always seemed to reject the supernatural even when his son was pretending to be a psychic. _Especially_ then. What changed his mind?"

Blendin gestured at the screen and Bud, conveniently, explained his motives in a rambling monologue to himself as he paced around his study.

"This has become a sinful world," he said. "Our leaders are corrupt, our people are faithless, the world is Fallen beyond repair. I thought the past few years were an aberration, but they are only getting worse, and there is no Earthly answer. Now I know you were right, Father. And you are the only one who can fix this." Bud looked up, tearfully, at his father's poster and grasped at it with the palms of his hands.

"I am so sorry for doubting you, Father!" Bud yelped. "The only penance I can offer is making sure that you have a chance to fulfill your destiny." And he sunk back down to his knees and broke down into tears.

"So, how do we stop it?" Ford asked.

"Well, let's see..." Blendin fidgeted with a watch on his hand. "We should coming up on the time when Dipper and Wendy are in the accident."

Ford went over to his time scanner and picked it up. "I'm getting three readings, so these must be three alternate timelines operatives, or else one timeline is showing up twice - which could be accounted for due to teleportation. One is in Georgetown, one's in Arlington, one's in downtown DC."

"Dang it, why can't this be easier?" Blendin yelped out loud. Then he calmed himself and sunk into thought. Shrieking, he realized, wouldn't resolve anything.

"Okay...when I sent Wendy back, all the kids were together in the Capitol Building. So, of those options...let's try downtown DC."

And so he brought the appropriate image up. They saw Dipper and Wendy driving a different car through a different town. The figure, somehow, still managed to appear...

Blendin and Ford watched with bated breath, hoping, praying that the kids would sort something out...

...The figure fired his gun and the kids vanished...

"Change it, change it!" Ford shouted. Blendin fiddled with the view screen. It cut to the familiar shot of the accident, the carnage in Arlington.

"Oh no..." Blendin blanched, backing away from the screen. "Oh my God, I killed them! They did everything right and...now they're dead. Oh geez, they're going to take away my badge and throw me in prison and...more importantly, I killed two people! I'm **responsible**! I sent them back and, and, and-and..."

As Blendin cried and stammered to himself, Ford watched the image more carefully. He noticed the different car, the similar but distinct features of the occupants, and smiled.

"Blendin, you knucklehead," he said. "You just switched the wrong feed."

"Oh, of course I did!" Blendin said, swallowing a sob, wiping the tears. Then he heaved a huge sigh of relief. "Of course! _Of course_ the kids didn't die!" Somehow he knew that wouldn't, couldn't happen - not with **these** kids. That's why he asked them to help in the first place!

He took a few more deep breaths, then brought up the right image on the screen - Dipper and Wendy reappearing in the familiar Arlington street, but managing to swerve and avoid the crash. He let the image play, and he and Ford witnessed the kids' violent encounter with Bill and then Haig's goons.

"Well...at least we know they're alive," Ford said. "When can we bring them back?"

"Unfortunately they're gonna have to play their roles for another day or so," Blendin said. "The Gleeful's plot has already begun, and it needs to be stopped before we can bring the kids back. Think of them as, like, a bandage or stitches across the fabric of time. Man, I hope I didn't mix those metaphors too badly."

Ford chuckled. "And if they succeed, we can bring them back and the people they're impersonating..."

"They'll resume their lives as if nothing had happened," Blendin assured him. "We, however, to work to re-patch the timeline."

Ford smiled. "I have just the device back in Gravity Falls..." Then he remembered and sighed. "Well, I guess **I** can't go back due to, you know, time paradox...Blendin, you'll have to handle it."

Blendin nodded. "Sure thing!" After what he'd just witnessed, retrieving some kind of Ford invention would be a cakewalk.

* * *

By the time Mabel and Charlie reached her apartment, they weren't even pretending to be Ariel Schuyler and the Apostle Simon any more. They spent the drive back singing their favorite &ndra songs, then at Mabel's insistence came back to _Hamilton_. They were sputtering their way through "Satisfied" with all the usual awkwardness of two white nerds rapping together; their driver, unfamiliar with the concept of hip-hop, struggled to hide his bafflement as they bolted from the seat, rushing arm-in-arm towards the entrance, still jabbering the lyrics as best they could.

Charlie: "I know she is..." Mabel: "Helpless!"

Charlie: "Her eyes are just..." Mabel: "Helpless!"

Charlie: "And I realize..."

Both: "Three fundamental truths at the exact same time!"

They laughed, then stopped long enough to ride the elevator and reach Mabel's apartment. Mabel undid Charlie's tie and tossed it aside, then gave him a long, loving kiss.

"Let's see if we have anything to eat," Mabel said, leading Charlie into the living room.

"Mind if I use your shower before...?" Charlie trailed off. "It's been kind of a rough day."

"I mean, yeah! Look at you!" Mabel laughed. "You're almost as sweaty as Dipper."

"I feel honored," Charlie said. And he started towards the bathroom.

"Don't use all the hot water!" Mabel scolded. "I can't wait to get out of this pantsuit!" She peeled off her jacket and tossed it on a kitchen table.

Still humming, Mabel made her way to the living room. And stopped cold when she saw a young blonde woman sitting on the couch, her smile curling into bafflement and rage.

"Ariel?" she said. Mabel detected an accent, but she couldn't place it.

"Uhh...hey," Mabel said, waving awkwardly. Who was this? She was a curve ball.

"I'd been trying to call you all day, but I couldn't get through," the woman said through an anguished grimace. Mabel saw a bottle of wine and two glasses sitting on the table. The news played silently on the television set behind them.

"Umm...sorry," Mabel said. "Yeah, you know how Congress is?"

"Ariel, who is that?" she demanded as Charlie, apparently oblivious, darted into the bathroom.

"He's a friend of mine," Mabel said, smiling.

"What _kind_ of friend?" the woman asked, standing up and pushing up to her face.

"Just, you know, someone I know," Mabel sputtered, still not. And she looked the woman in the eyes, saw the pain and anguish, and realized...

The lady from New Zealand who kept calling today...

She glanced around and saw several pictures of Ariel and this woman together. And finally, she put two and two together.

"Yeah, he's...a friend," Mabel said helplessly, now sagging with guilt.

"Really? Do you usually give your friends a deep tongue kiss the moment you get in the door?"

"Only the special ones," Mabel shrugged, trying to make a joke of it. Ariel's partner wasn't buying.

"We've been over this and over this, Ariel!" the woman (Mabel wished she could remember her name) said, pushing away from her pacing across the room. "I know you don't want anyone to know about us, that it would destroy your career. Like, I'm not bloody stupid. But, at least do me the courtesy of...You aren't trying to hide it by dating him are you."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! This isn't what it looks like," Mabel insisted, following after her. She had no idea how to play this scenario; it was a curve ball, to say the least. Somehow she'd never guessed that Ariel Schuyler, Republican Congresswoman from upstate New York, might be gay.

 _Gotta step up, girl_ , Mabel said. _Try your improv game._

"Come on, you know I only care about you," Mabel said, as sincerely as she could muster. "This is just my friend, Charlie. He's someone I've known for a long time..."

"Oh, like that's supposed to make me feel better," her partner said.

"No, but it's kind of...a thing we do." Mabel remembered that she was terrible at lying. So she tried affection instead.

"It's weird but, you know...I would never...ever do anything to hurt you," she said, wrapping her arms around the woman from behind.

"You know I don't like to be touched there!" the woman yelled, pulling away violently. "So typical! All about you, all the time, isn't it? All about your friends, never about me, eh? I blow off embassy events and meetings with the Ambassador to see and you treat me like this. Well, I'm through. We're through!"

The woman pushed past her. Mabel just stared open-mouthed, shocked and guilty.

Charlie stuck his head out the bathroom door, having apparently overheard the commotion.

"Sounds like I missed something," Charlie said.

"Let me handle this," Mabel said, determined not to lose Ariel Schuyler a loving partner.

She'd been so wrapped up in her speech, in the whole saving-the-world thing, that she hadn't really stopped to think about whether there were other, more subtle ways that she and Charlie (and Dipper or Wendy, for that matter) could impact the timelines. Maybe the world would go on if Ariel Schuyler and this woman were apart, but Mabel Pines, time-traveling matchmaker, wouldn't let that happen if she could help it.

 _Jasmine._ Mabel suddenly pulled her name out of the air. She caught Jasmine as she was about to board the elevator.

"Jasmine, wait!" Mabel grabbed her arm and registered the hurt on her friend's face. Just now Mabel noticed her beautiful, deep green eyes.

"Jasmine, I'm sorry," she said, still fumbling for a story. "I should have told you I was bringing Charlie over tonight. He's somebody I knew from back in college and I kinda caught up with him at the caucus. Couldn't believe he'd travel all this way to see me, you know! I'm sorry I went overboard with the kiss, too. I know it sounds weird that it's a thing we do, but, hey, when you know a guy for so long..."

"Does he know about us?" Jasmine asked, her voice a whisper. Mabel could tell that she wanted to believe Ariel, but had a hard time accepting what she was saying.

"I don't know about _us_ -us," Mabel said. "But he was the first person I told about, you know...So he knows that much."

This seemed to mollify Jasmine, and she sobbed. "I'm being a bit of a prat, aren't I?" she said, hugging Mabel and pressing her head against her chest.

"No, it's my fault," Mabel said comfortingly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know I haven't been as attentive as I should have been, but...well, impeachment only comes about once a century!"

Jasmine chuckled a little and put a hand lovingly on Mabel's face. Mabel wasn't sure how she'd react if a kiss came, but decided to play it by ear. There were worse things, she decided.

"I don't know how you put up with me," Jasmine said. She hugged Mabel, and Mabel did her best to comfort her, kissing her on the forehead as an exclamation point.

"I still think I'd better go," Jasmine said.

"What? No!" Mabel said. "It's only, what, midnight? Think of all the fun we could have before we pass out..."

"I think I've ruined the evening," Jasmine admitted, her delicate face showing guilt and awkwardness. "Plus, you have another debate tomorrow. But, um, maybe some other time..."

"You haven't ruined anything," Mabel assured her. "This is all my fault!" But she still moved to go.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Jasmine said quietly as she boarded the elevator. Then, with a burst of sincerity: "Oh, and darling - you were **amazing** tonight!"

Mabel smiled as Jasmine disappeared behind the elevator doors. Then she slunk back into the apartment, suddenly feeling down, crushed with guilt, hoping that she hadn't accidentally ruined something beautiful.

* * *

Charles Sandman lingered a little longer at the office than Ariel Schuyler. He called his wife back in Somers Point, assuring her that everything was going well, or as well as could be expected. Then he sighed and sat down, rubbing his face in his hands. What had he gotten himself into?

Sometimes he wondered why he bothered. Deep in the pit his soul, he _hated_ Richard Nixon. Didn't trust him, didn't care for him, supported him only out of dumb, stubborn loyalty. He had wanted Nelson Rockefeller to be president; he still cherished a picture of himself and Rocky that he kept in office, thinking that **he** wouldn't have been stupid enough to get himself into this mess. Certainly he resented Nixon refusing to campaign for him when Sandman ran for governor; let alone for causing all this Watergate bullshit and making life impossible for other Republicans.

He wondered if he did it out of loyalty, or because he was a lawyer and just liked to argue. Even in a lost cause, hopeless case. In his heart he wondered. But his head told him: you're doing the right thing. Reelection's going to be tough enough without your base abandoning you. And hate him or not, he **is** your President, and you have to stand by him as long as it's possible to do so.

So Sandman opted to fight another day. Though the phone call he got that evening shook his confidence, just a little bit.

"Hello?" he answered, amazed that anyone was calling him so late any way.

"Hey Charlie, this is Stan Pines," came a gruff voice on the other line. "You don't know me, but I'm one of your constituents. Live out in Glass Shard Beach."

"Of course," Sandman said, struggling to hide his fatigue and impatience. He rattled his brain for a memory. "Glass Shard Beach...Are you related to Filbrick Pines, by any chance?"

"Bingo!" Stan said. "That's my dad."

"He's quite a character," Sandman laughed. "A hard worker and a good, loyal Republican. What can I do for you at this late hour, friend?"

"Well friend, I watched the hearings tonight and just wanted to let you know that you're a national disgrace," Stan said, his voice as even and cheerful as it was before. "You're betraying your country and shitting all over your constituents just to play to the right-wing peanut gallery. Well done, Charlie, well done. I always knew Congress was full of rats, but you're the most rodent-like of 'em all!"

Sandman sighed in aggravation; he'd gotten hundreds of these calls since impeachment began.

"Look, Mr. Pines, it's a bit late for this," he said. "I understand your concern, but..."

"If you understood my concern Charlie, you'd do the right thing for once in your slimy, worthless life and kick that fucker Nixon outta the White House. But you either don't understand, or don't care. Hope you got somethin' lined up because we're kicking your ass to the curb this November."

And Stan hung up. Sandman smashed the phone into its receiver and opened his cabinet drawer, looking desperately for something to drink.

* * *

Mabel took a quick shower once Charlie finished, then slunk into bed beside him. She couldn't face him, just felt awful about had happened. Charlie stared ahead, unsure how to comfort her or break the ice.

"The last thing I ever want to do is hurt people," Mabel said finally, trying not to cry. "Anyone, even bad people. Even people I don't like. And I never want to break up a couple like this. Ever. Even if it means saving the world."

"That's because you're a good person, Mabel," Charlie said. "Hey, we didn't know, you didn't know."

"Yeah, but...what if Ariel Schuyler and this Jasmine were together for their whole lives?" Mabel asked, turning to face him. "What if they lived together for decades until it was okay to be gay and they were still around when it became okay for them to get married and they're still around to celebrate how amazing everything's been for them, how they fought through so much to be a couple? And I wrecked it." She sobbed, her voice lowering to a whisper. "I wrecked it."

Charlie didn't know what to say to that. He hadn't thought about the personal impact of the whole time travel thing, either, and he knew Mabel wouldn't be reassured by a "needs of the many" argument. So he gave her a hug and let her bury his head in his chest, letting out a few tears. Charlie cried a bit too, hating to see Mabel so downcast. And maybe the pain from the bruises on his stomach, where the Gleeful thugs had smashed him earlier, contributed.

"You were great tonight, Mabel," he said, hoping to change the subject. "You played your part brilliantly and you made sure people who didn't notice Ariel Schuyler before will know who she is now. Like, I'd never even heard of her until this mission, at least not beyond seeing her in a list of names in some book somewhere. And tomorrow we're gonna save the world. You and me and Dipper and Wendy."

This made Mabel feel a little better. "You always know what to say," she said, stroking his face.

"No, I don't," Charlie assured her. "We've both had long, awful days, and...I mean, I don't know what the impact is gonna be. Even if we were super careful, we aren't going to be able to replicate everything exactly. Blendin even told us that! All we can do is try and make things right as best we can."

Mabel nodded and both of them lay on their backs, linking hands and staring at the ceiling for a long moment. Then Charlie picked back up the song from earlier, drawing Mabel into another flash of singing and excitement that helped them momentarily forget. Finally, as they concluded together with "And I'll never be satisfied," they drew together into each other's arms and fell asleep.

 _Author's note: Thanks again if you're still reading this far! All reviews, comments and constructive criticisms welcome. As in past weeks, I'm going to take a break for a few days, partly to finish another project and partly to make sure that our heroes' adventures on July 25th are as exciting as possible._


	22. Chapter 22

**July 25th, 1974**

 **5:30 am**

Mabel, at least, woke up early. She had to be awake anyway for the day's hearings, let alone the world-saving excitement scheduled for later. She decided to let Charlie sleep a little longer; after nearly getting murdered by a cult, he deserved it.

She tried calling Dipper's apartment a few times, but had no luck; she only got an older lady who was sweet the first time she answered the phone, wary the second time, furious after that. She worried about her brother and Wendy, whom they hadn't heard from since parting the night before.

She took a long shower, reflecting on the previous night, the euphoria of her speech and her musical fun with Charlie, the frustration and guilt at driving away (temporarily, she hoped!) Ariel's partner. And the underlying worry about having to, yet again, save the world from Armageddon.

She was drying herself off when she heard Charlie talking to someone on the telephone. She wrapped the towel around her midsection and rushed out, snatching the receiver away from her boyfriend, too groggy to fight back.

"Dipper! Is that you?" she shouted into the phone.

"Hey Mabel," Dipper said through a yawn. "Sorry."

"Where have you been?" Mabel demanded. "I tried calling you all morning!"

"We had to set up at a hotel in Arlington," Dipper explained. "Wendy and I...we encountered the anomaly that caused everything to go wrong. Only we managed to live through it."

"Ohmigosh, what happened?" Mabel demanded, leaning against the desk so hard that her towel started to slip. She squeaked, but Charlie, ever the gentleman, carefully re-wrapped it with his eyes chivalrously averted.

"We'll talk later," Dipper said. "Any chance we could meet at your place?"

"Of course!" Mabel said. "Do you want me to make food? Or get something?"

"We'll pick up some food from McDonald's or something on the way," Dipper replied. "Wendy said we might wanna make a few stops before coming over."

"Well, get here quick!" Mabel said. "Doomsday doesn't happen every day!" Then she looked over at Charlie, who was stumbling zombie-like towards the couch, then a thought popped into her head.

"Hey Dip, I have a teeny, tiny favor to ask of you."

* * *

Becky Dierdorf spent the evening in the same room in the Gleeful warehouse. Any attempt she made to sleep was drowned out by a tape recording of Reverend Gleeful's berserk sermons playing over the loudspeaker for hours on end. She wondered if Chandler was being subjected to the same treatment, or if she was somehow special enough that they were singling her out. Possibly the inevitable leers her captors directed towards her legs and cleavage answered _that_ question.

She tried to keep herself sane by playing whatever games her mind could conjure. She tried counting, then doing math problems, then singing "Ohio" and "Fortunate Son" and, in extremis, "The Red Flag" under her breath in an effort to fight the brainwashing. Then, perhaps for the first time, she started wondering what the hell she was doing here.

She and her comrades were so caught up in their own revolutionary dreams that she hadn't stopped to think why a bunch of reactionary fanatics like the Gleefuls would want to help radical leftists carry out a terrorist action. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that, but it struck her as odd the more she thought about it. Certainly anything they'd gain from blowing up the Capitol must be diametrically opposed to anything she and her friends envisioned.

Maybe she and her colleagues were too arrogant and short-sighted, she thought, to see this until now. Maybe there was some nightmare scenario beyond the inevitable fallout of a nuclear bombing that was being planned. Her mind was, indeed, suspicious enough to conjure just the scenario being worked out by the White House and the Gleefuls.

But, she reminded herself, it was too late to do anything about it. And in any case, she didn't have much choice, did she?

She wondered how Chandler was getting along. He'd always been the shy, quiet, cerebral one of the group, lacking the macho swagger of Bill and Dirk that alternately attracted and repulsed her. When she'd offered to sleep with him, he'd been unable to perform and broke down crying, never bothering to try again. But for all that she liked him, because he was no less dedicated to their cause. And a quiet bomb-maker was far more dangerous than a swinging dick with a big mouth and a gun.

And she thought about Charlotte. She still hadn't pieced together what had exactly had happened - how she could have disappeared in a beam of light, as if being recalled to the Holodeck or abducted by aliens. She and her friends had been terrified by the experience, as if witnessing a supernatural vision. Maybe that would explain why Charlotte had been acting so weird the past few days.

Finally, around 3:00 the tape switched off and the room became deathly quiet. Becky's mind took just a few seconds to wind itself down before she settled into an hour or two of deep, cleansing sleep.

* * *

"Come on Charlie, Mabel Juice is an essential part of the Mabel Experience!"

"I dunno if I want to drink something with plastic toys in it..."

Mabel snatched the drink away and glared at her boyfriend. "Charlie, I'm not _asking_ you," she said, adopting the humorless tone she used when something was important to her. "You are going to drink this, and it's going to be your favorite thing ever. Now drink!"

And she thrust the glass violently in Charlie's hand. Charlie looked at Wendy, who shrugged, and Dipper, who smiled back. Charlie sighed, gulped, then drank down the whole glass in one drink, feeling the plastic army man bump against his teeth. He visibly winced, sputtering at the jolt of pure sugar, then flashed Mabel a thumbs up.

Mabel smiled. "I knew you'd love it!" she said, giving him a hug.

"It was certainly...sweet," he said.

"It wasn't perfect," Mabel admitted. "There weren't any Pitt Cola or energy drinks around so we had to make do with Mountain Dew and extra sugar."

"I can certainly taste it," Charlie said, feeling the sugary acid burn his teeth and scorch his tongue.

"Another glass?" Mabel had already poured him another glass. Charlie stared at the cup, and Mabel, without losing her smile, said, "Maybe later."

"Another milestone down," Wendy laughed, patting Charlie on the back.

"Everyone has to drink that stuff eventually," Dipper said sympathetically.

"You'll thank me when you're awake," Mabel said before taking a drink of her own.

The conversation turned more serious after that. Over Egg McMuffins (still a newfangled thing in 1974, apparently) and Mabel Juice (except Wendy, who stuck with coffee), they tried to plan the day ahead. For all the knowledge they'd managed to pool, they were still drawing a blank.

"Looks like most of the terrorists blew themselves up," Wendy explained. "And took the FBI dude with them. But we know Bill escaped, so there's at least one of them still out there. He was kind of useless and high-strung though."

"Well, if the Gleefuls had something planned they're not going to give up that easily," Charlie said. "I mean, these guys are intense. Kooks, in other words."

"But it's happening today," Dipper noted, "and that's what matters."

And they started to formulate a plan. Dipper took charge.

"Mabel, when does your hearing start?" Dipper asked.

"Ten o'clock," Mabel said.

"Okay, so hopefully we'll have a few hours to stop whatever's gonna happen first," Dipper said, scratching his head. "But if not...people will notice if you're gone..."

"Charlie!" Mabel interjected. "You can act as my aide or page or whatever it's called. Hang around outside and if things start to go down, come in and pass me a note. I'll see if I can ask for recess or whatever."

"...Damn," Charlie said. "Why didn't we think of that last night?"

"Because Dipper wasn't here for us to pool our amazing twin brains!" Mabel declared. Dipper smiled briefly at his sister, then instantly snapped back into Serious Mode. This was one of those times where his love for planning everything down to the tiniest detail came in handy.

"Wendy and I will come in as your guests," Dipper continued. "If anyone recognizes me, I'm here on orders from the White House schmoozing Congressmen. Wendy's a reporter who's here to cover the hearings."

"Why a reporter?" Charlie asked.

"Because she didn't want to be my assistant," Dipper admitted, lowering his head.

"Fuckin' A," Wendy affirmed, with an intensity that made Mabel laugh.

"We'll try to get inside and look for anything suspicious. We know the Gleefuls will be there protesting, so I'm thinking they'll probably use that as a diversion or something. And we know that jerk Congressman who was hassling you guys works for the Gleefuls. We'll definitely need to keep tabs on him."

"I'd do it," Charlie offered, "but I think my credibility's shot with him." He hung his head in shame; he was the worst time-traveling undercover spy.

"That's okay," Mabel assured him. "I need you to keep me in the loop anyway!"

"We'll need to be there as early as we can so we have to scope things out," Dipper said. "Mabel, is there any kind of secret entrance or anything that they might try to use?"

Mabel wracked her brain, upset now that she hadn't paid much attention to the actual interior of the building.

"Well, there are tunnels that connect different parts of the complex," Mabel said. "Like, you usually walk in them from your office to the actual Capitol Building. I think they have subways or something that goes underneath the Capitol, too."

"Yeah, I read about that," Dipper said. "Seems like a safe bet that they'll try and get something in that way."

Wendy suddenly thought of something from the previous day.

"Guys...they're gonna need something big enough to blow up the entire building, right?" Wendy said.

"What do you mean?" Dipper asked.

"I mean, that's what Blendin said, and that's what we found out, like, when all the books and junk started changing, right? Something tells me they're not just gonna throw a bomb in a toilet and hope it does some damage. This has to be something big."

"I think you're right," Dipper said.

"The PLV or whoever had some kinda big dynamite bomb jerry-rigged together," Wendy said. "I saw it yesterday when I met with them. But that's what blew up the hideout, right? So there must be a second weapon."

Charlie had the next thought - the scariest one so far.

"Wendy...didn't you say yesterday that they talked about using nuclear material?"

"Yeah."

"Well...what if they actually _have_ a nuclear weapon?"

That thought seemed too dreadful, too absurd to think about it. Until Charlie raised it, and then it wasn't.

"You've _got_ to be kidding," Wendy said, sinking into a chair.

"What better to cause Armageddon?" Charlie wondered. "Besides, where else could they get nuclear material from?"

"If they had a nuclear bomb, why did they need the terrorists at all?" Wendy asked. "That doesn't make any sense."

"They want patsies or something," Dipper reminded her. "Want to have someone to blame so that they can take power or whatever their plan is...Look, I'm not saying they thought it out super-deeply. But there's enough of a plan that it's happening."

Wendy nodded grimly, deciding it was far too late to have any real doubts. Then she opened the duffel bag that she'd brought with her.

"Mabes, before I forget, Dipper and I stopped at a hardware store on the way and got a few things." She and Dipper exchanged a conspiratorial smile as she rummaged through it.

First, she hefted a small ax. "This oughta come in handy," she said, posing proudly with her weapon. "Don't know how I've made it this far without one of these babies."

"All right, Wen!" Mabel applauded.

"But wait, there's more!" Dipper said. He reached into the bag and pulled out something which Mabel instantly recognized...

 **"GRAPPLING HOOK!"**

Mabel squealed and hugged the projectile weapon like a long-lost puppy. It was a very different, fancier design, looking for all the world like something Adam West's Batman would use rather than her utilitarian model, but so far as Mabel could tell it was the same basic mechanism.

"Yep!" Wendy beamed. "Now you can totally kick ass along with me and your brother...and Charlie, I guess."

"Gee, thanks," Charlie murmured.

"One problem," Dipper interjected. "How are we going to get those things in the Capitol building?"

"Oh, it's quite easy," Mabel assured him, stroking her new weapon with an attentiveness that mildly alarmed her friends. "They don't really check for weapons and stuff unless you go into the hearing room. Man, you'd be amazed at how lax security is back in the '70s!"

"...Well, that's certainly...huh." Dipper didn't know what to say to that.

"It's true," Charlie interjected. "Back in the '50s there were some Puerto Rican terrorists who actually went into a hearing room and started shooting Congressmen. And the Weathermen blew up a bomb inside the building not long before this. Wasn't really until 9/11 that they got super-strict about security."

Dipper and Wendy were somewhat incredulous, but they decided not to fight it. "Well, that makes things a little easier," Wendy admitted.

"For us and for them," Dipper added. And that thought filled everyone with dread.

Until Charlie sat up and seemed to have a seizure. He felt the sugar rush from the Mabel Juice hit him all at once, and started quivering in place, then bolted to his feet and started pacing around the room.

"Man...that stuff is **potent**!" he said. And everyone laughed.

* * *

Oliver Pemberton arrived at the Capitol before just about anyone else. He greeted the Capitol policeman, Charlie Gomez, who stood watch near his office, the janitors scrubbing the floors, the two pages for a fellow Congressman he caught necking in the hallway. He chuckled to himself, wishing he could be that young again, then remembering that in a few hours it wouldn't matter.

He had dismissed his own staff for the day, saying that he could run things himself for one twenty-four hour period. Perhaps it was a bit of unwelcome sentimentality; he did like his aides and the thought of them being obliterated in an explosion made him queasy. At least if they were a few miles away there might be enough remains to bury.

He locked his office door and settled into his chair, sighing. He looked up and saw a picture of himself shaking Reverend Gleeful's hand. If anyone had thought it odd before, they didn't say anything; the Good Reverend supported a lot of conservative politicians, after all, not least the President. There was no reason to assume that Pemberton was one of his followers just on account of that.

He looked also a picture of his son Ray in his Naval uniform. He had died several years ago in the fire on the USS Forrestal, roasted to death on a runaway after a rocket accidentally discharged. Such a pointless death, he thought, that he couldn't reconcile it to himself or his wife or Ray's younger brother, who literally went mad with grief. And so he turned to a local preacher with a flare for speaking and dire pronouncements who seemed to make sense.

Pemberton had spent much of the intervening seven years spreading the Gleeful Word in Washington, DC. He helped the Reverend Gleeful insinuate himself into Congressional circles, gaining a lobbying power and influence far beyond the few thousand followers, mostly in the Deep South, he'd managed to acquire over the years. He'd even managed to, discreetly, convert two of his fellow Congressmen - one Southern Democrat, one western Republican, in the interests of bipartisanship - to the Church. But neither nor his messiah trusted them enough to bring them on board the plan.

He looked around his office, pictures of himself with his family, military brass, lobbyists, other congressional leaders, Presidents Eisenhower and Nixon. What a waste, he thought, that even good men and women would have to die. But the world needs a cleansing, and a better world awaits.

He opened his desk drawer and took out an old Luger he'd brought back from the Second World War. He loaded a clip into it and placed it on his desk. Hopefully he wouldn't have to use the thing today - everything would go off without a hitch - but one could never be sure. He knew that Ariel Schuyler and her new friend, the Apostle Simon - suspected, if not proved of being an apostate cooperating with Federal investigators even before his aggressive behavior yesterday - seemed suspicious about the whole thing, but didn't quite know the significance of it.

He'd never rated Schuyler much, a pretty woman from a rich New York Republican family who used nepotism to secure a Congressional seat. She'd only ended up on the Judiciary Committee as a fluke when her predecessor died in a stroke. He'd expected her to be a firm vote against impeachment, but long before yesterday's bizarre display of cheerfulness and frivolity he'd already known she was wavering. Now she'd actively spoken out for impeaching the President, and so she could be counted as an enemy.

Still, he knew she couldn't do much to stop him. How could anyone? No one, he smugly felt, had any real knowledge of the plan - only himself, the Reverend, the Apostle Paul and the men who'd actually carry it out. Only an act of God, or Satan as it may be, could actually interfere with their plans.

His thoughts were interrupted by a phone call from John Rhodes, the Minority Leader, with whom he briefly discussed the impeachment hearings. "I don't think we have the votes, but I'll keep working the Republicans on the committee to make sure we at least have a fighting chance. Wiggins is speaking first this morning, he's always effective."

Then he waited a minute, lowering his head in silent prayer, then dialed his contact at the Gleeful headquarters.

"Hello, this is Brother Pemberton," he said. "Is Seraph a go?" The response came instantly; he nodded and said, "thank you," then hung up.

He savored one last, long look around his office, then pocketed his firearm and exited the office. He had work to do.


	23. Chapter 23

**July 25th, 1974**

 **9:00 am**

When Dipper and Wendy finally reached the Capitol - after first trying to follow Mabel's chauffeured limousine, then getting lost and somehow ending up in Bethesda, **then** taking the wrong exit off Massachusetts Avenue into Georgetown - it was much later than they'd hoped to be there. The steps were already crawling with demonstrators, whether pro- or anti-impeachment, there were cops everywhere and nervous journalists and photographers drifting around to record the action. Dipper hurried up the stairs first, followed by Wendy who had her duffel bag, along with a tape recorder and notepad to make her journalist pose credible.

As Dipper and Wendy brushed through the crowd, they heard a commotion further down the steps. Wendy turned and saw a loud argument breaking out between the anti-Nixon protesters and the ever-present Gleefuls, with fingers being jabbed, signs and placards shaking and insults volleying back forth This was unusual, Wendy thought. From her memory, the Gleefuls had been, though forceful, rather serene and calm and orderly the previous day. They were too well-drilled to be making this kind of ruckus.

"Dip," she said, pointing at the fight, "I think something's about to go down."

Two cops stood close by, watching the argument with evident amusement. They made no attempt to intervene until a young anti-Nixon protester smashed the head Gleeful over the head with her sign. Then the cops signaled for several of their colleagues, and they rushed in and broke up the fight, dragging the lead agitators away and separating the two groups by force.

"If that was meant as a distraction, I don't think it worked," Dipper said dryly, turning up the steps and rushing inside. But Wendy wasn't so sure; she hung back, watching closely as the cops dragged the demonstrators...inside the Capitol? That didn't seem right.

She didn't recognize the head Gleeful, a bespectacled young man with black hair cut ultra-short - they all looked more or less alike anyway. Then the woman walked by. Wendy looked her in the eye and saw, to her horror, that it was...Becky?

Becky stared at Wendy incredulously for a moment. She seemed to be mouthing something to her, but the cop pulled her away too fast for Wendy to read her lips. And they disappeared inside.

"FORGIVE! LOVE! UNITE!" the Gleefuls started chanting.

"HEY HEY, HO HO, TRICKY DICK HAS GOT TO GO!" the other protesters answered back. Wendy watched even more cops arrive, preparing to intervene should there be another dust-up. But Wendy didn't think there would be. If her suspicions were correct, the Gleefuls had already played their first hand.

* * *

Charlie greeted Dipper and Wendy in the lobby amidst a swarm of reporters, a queue of spectators lined up like sports fans for a spot in the hearing room. They all had to speak nearly at shouting level to be heard over the commotion.

"Sorry guys, Mabel's in a caucus with some other Congresspeople," he explained. "Something about an agriculture bill? Anyway, she couldn't get out of it."

"Why would they hold a meeting so close to the hearings?" Wendy asked.

"Congress has its own schedule," Charlie said mysteriously.

"Anything weird going on?" Dipper asked him.

"Not particularly," Charlie said. "Of course, if there were it would be hard to tell. So many people moving around in such a small space..."

"At least we know they couldn't get a big bomb in here," Dipper said. "All we saw was a little dust-up on the steps."

"Yeah, the demonstrators are always going at it," Charlie said. "They've been here since...well, they probably camped on the sidewalk out there."

"Guys," Wendy said. "That mess outside...I saw Becky."

"Who?" Dipper asked.

"Becky," Wendy repeated. "The girl from the PLV. The terrorists I was with!"

"Where was she?" Dipper asked, suddenly on guard.

"She was one of those demonstrators that got arrested," Wendy said. "Tried to follow them inside, but lost track."

"I think the police have an office in a side hallway somewhere," Charlie said.

"Mr. Anderson!" someone called. Dipper turned and saw a bespectacled man with thinning hair and fuzzy black mustache approaching him. He looked like a frazzled, forlorn penguin, Dipper thought.

"I'd have thought the White House would be keeping all of its people the hell away from here today," the man said, in a tone that blended bonhomie and irritation. "Hoping to change a few votes?"

"Never hurts to try," Dipper shrugged, taken aback. He noticed Charlie scribbling something hurriedly on a notepad.

"What optimism!" the man chuckled. "You know what Jim Eastland said to me the other day? People in the White House call you Dr. Funtimes, or some such thing. Course, Barry has another name for you, but you'll have to ask him..."

"I'm here at the pleasure of the President," Dipper reiterated. He felt someone bump him, and saw Charlie hand him a note from behind.

"Senator, do you think you have the votes to stop impeachment?" Wendy asked.

"And who are you to ask me?" the man demanded.

Dipper looked down at the scrap of paper: **HUGH SCOTT (R-PA) - SENATE MINORITY LEADER.**

"My name is, uh, Sandra Chadley," Wendy said, making it up on the spot. "Political reporter for the _Running Dog_."

" _Running Dog_ , huh? Never heard of it. One of those radical rags, I imagine."

"We like to think we're in the mainstream, sir," Wendy insisted.

Scott smirked. "Sure, sure. The mainstream of what, the Comintern? Say listen, to Mr. Anderson, in confidence of course, I might express my candid and complete answer on such an issue. To a reporter, especially a Bolshevik, I will repeat what I've been saying: _Ich kann nicht Englisch sprachen_. Though I wonder you're hanging out with this crowd..."

"Your guess is as good as mine, Senator," Dipper shrugged. "It's a strange time."

"It is at that," Scott laughed heartily. "Well, I have to find somewhere to hide so that John Rhodes doesn't spot me. My aides tell me there's a nice horse sculpture from the Tang Dynasty waiting for me from Philadelphia. Hard to think it's one I don't already have, but what the hell, it could be valuable or interesting or at least nice to look at. It's _definitely_ not going to ask me what I think about impeachment."

He laughed at his own joke, coughed, then reached out and shook Dipper's hand. "Nice seeing you, sir." He didn't acknowledge Wendy or Charlie and walked off, pulling a pipe out of his coat as he walked.

"Well, that was...huh," Dipper said.

"One of my favorite historical politicians, and he didn't even notice me," Charlie lamented with a sigh.

Dipper looked after Scott for a moment, then from the corner of his eye, emerging from a camera flash, saw three figures walking through the lobby. He didn't really recognize two of them, but the first looked dimly familiar. He stepped forward, gesturing towards his companions and they all turned. Charlie skittered out of the way, looking for somewhere to hide.

Dipper caught the glimpse of Mr. Pemberton. He merely smiled, nodded in acknowledgment, and moved on with his two companions flanking him.

"I think we have our second lead," Dipper said.

Wendy nodded. "You ready, Dip?" She stuffed her notepad and tape recorder inside the duffel bag. She had restrain herself from not whipping out her hatchet in public, zipping it up instead.

"As I'll ever be," Dipper affirmed. "Charlie, get word to Mabel what's going on. We've got an apocalypse to stop."

"How will we find you?" Charlie asked.

"I dunno," Dipper said, he and Wendy already walking away. "Just...We'll figure it out."

And then they disappeared amidst the crush of bystanders. Charlie groaned and walked, then bumped into another senator's chest. And gasped when he recognized him.

"You stupid son of a bitch, watch where you're going!" the Senator barked.

"Sorry, Senator Goldwater," Charlie sputtered. "Bit crowded in here."

"Not crowded enough that an adult can't walk straight," Goldwater complained. "Who the hell are you anyway?"

"I work for Ariel Schuyler," Charlie answered, still star struck.

"Schuyler? From New York? Yeah." Goldwater's voice grew more polite, but he frowned. "Yeah, well that young lady's put us all in a lot of hot water with her silly speech last night."

"I'd, uh, rather say the President were doing that," Charlie said.

"You have got that right, young man," Goldwater whistled. "Listen, sorry I snapped at you. I swear to God, until this mess sorts itself out we aren't going to be able to have a single damn civil conversation in this whole city. Oh, I didn't catch your name."

"Uh, Charlie. Charlie Huston."

"Any relation to the Tom Huston who used to work at the White House?"

"Cousins," Charlie fibbed.

"Good man, good man," Goldwater said approvingly. "More conservative than _me_ , if you can believe it."

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Senator." Charlie hated to cut this conversation short, but he had a job to do.

"Yeah, just learn not to bump into Senators," Goldwater muttered, half-joking. "Maybe that flies in the House, but...JESUS CHRIST!" Goldwater tripped over the wire from a television camera, spat insults at the humiliated technicians, then hurried away, embarrassed and cursing under his breath. Charlie knew he would cherish _that_ memory for the rest of his life.

* * *

Dipper and Wendy followed Pemberton and his colleagues through the rush of the crowd, trying their best to keep a safe distance. Wendy thought she needed to ditch her duffel bag, worried that her jacket wasn't long enough to hide her hatchet otherwise. Dipper seemed more concerned with avoiding detection, ducking behind tall onlookers or columns or camera set-ups whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Eventually Wendy, a bit bolder than Dipper, pulled ahead and watched them open a side door. She slipped off her high heels and started sprinting, with Dipper frantically looking about, worried about their keeping attention. They ran in between two young aides chatting about some piece of legislation, only to watch the door close in their faces.

Wendy went up to the door first, pushing on it to make sure it was still open. She pulled the hatchet from her bag as quietly and covertly as she could.

"You ready, Dip?" she asked her partner. Dipper nodded.

And Wendy pushed the door open...And saw Pemberton's pals disappearing down a stairwell. She waited until they were out of sight until she entered the corridor after them, beckoning Dipper to follow her. They entered, clicking the door behind them.

They crept down the stairs as slowly, as covertly as they could, still hearing footfalls ahead of them. When they finally reached the bottom of the steps, they stood up and saw...Pemberton in the middle of a small vestibule, chatting with a Capitol policeman. Two others brushed past, then walked towards the stairs and moved past Dipper and Wendy, acknowledging them with an awkward nod.

"Well... _that_ was pointless," Wendy muttered, sheepishly slipping her hatchet under her arm.

"Is that a checkpoint or is the cop just there?" Dipper whispered. "I mean, Charlie said this place was pretty much wide open."

"Excuse me," someone said. Dipper and Wendy moved out of the way, muttering apologies as a middle-aged woman walked past and moved past Pemberton and the policeman.

"Now we have to make our entrance seem inconspicuous, don't we?" Wendy asked.

"How are we gonna do that?" Dipper asked. "I mean, we're already here, no way we're not gonna attract attention..."

"I _know_ that, Dip!" Wendy rasped. "Let's just wait a minute and play it cool."

That minute passed and Pemberton was _still_ chatting with the cop. Wendy sighed and moved out of hiding, to Dipper's annoyance.

"Hey there, you're Mr. Pemberton, right?" she asked as cheerfully as she could.

"Why yes," Pemberton greeted her, all Southern charm. "And what can I do for you, ma'am?"

"I'm Sandra Chadley with the _Running Dog_ magazine," she announced, "and I'm looking for your thoughts on the impeachment proceedings."

"Oh, so is _everyone_ , aren't they?" Pemberton chuckled. "Not sure I have anything more to say. I hope the President pulls off a come-from-behind victory."

"Do you really think it's possible?" Wendy pressed.

"Stranger things have happened," Pemberton said. "Now ma'am, if you don't mind I'll be running along. Oh, and by the way," he added with a wink, "tell Mr. Anderson there's no need for him to hide back there." Then he rose his voice. "We're all friends here, Mr. Anderson!" Dipper cringed and stood up, waving awkwardly.

Pemberton smiled and walked off, concluding his conversation with the cop with a handshake and a friendly expression. His two colleagues waited for him to walk past and they walked on down the hall. Wendy waived to Dipper and they started moving after them, past the policeman who barely seemed concerned.

They saw Pemberton nod at another man entering through a door on the right side of the hall. After the man walked on - brushing past Dipper and Wendy, of course - Pemberton nodded at one of his colleagues, who opened another door in front of them, entered and disappeared.

Wendy sprung forward, but Dipper grabbed her shoulder.

"Wendy, it could be a trap," he whispered. "I mean, they knew we were following them before, and that looks like...some kind of restricted entrance."

"So? All the more reason to hurry, man!"

"Wendy, I'm saying...They'll be **immediately** suspicious if we follow them right in. Give them a minute to lower their guards, _then_ we can try to follow."

"But what if the door's locked or something like that?" Wendy demanded.

"We'll cross the bridge when we come to it," Dipper assured her. "But for right now, I'm more worried about getting shot or captured or something. Those guys don't look like anyone I'd want to mess with."

Wendy held herself back, nodding. She was frustrated at Dipper's prudence, feeling adrenaline start to surge through her body, her breathing and pulse quickening. But he had a point, she decided, restraining herself for the moment.

 _Badasses live,_ she told herself. _Dumbasses die a pointless death._

* * *

Mabel had just exited the meeting on the Agricultural bill when someone handed her a message to meet with another congressman.

"Ugh, I really **can't** right now!" Mabel complained, itchy and antsy with anticipation.

"Ms. Schuyler," the page said, "I know you're getting ready for impeachment, but..."

"No, tell your boss that I've got more important things right now!" Mabel said, breaking away. She realized that she sounded whiny but didn't really care. Some things were more important than whatever boring piece of legislature they needed her sponsorship for.

She headed into the lobby and sighed, splashing herself with water from a fountain. Then Charlie ran up to her.

"Mabel, there you are!" he cried. "Dipper and Wendy followed Pemberton into one of the tunnels downstairs."

"Did you see which one?" Mabel demanded.

"I mean, they were headed that way..." He gestured helplessly.

"That's no help!" Mabel said, shaking Charlie by the shoulders. "They were going into the garage?"

"I mean, if they were bringing in some kind of bomb wouldn't that be the perfect place?" Charlie asked. "They only need to be inconspicuous long enough to detonate it."

"Ugh. Charlie, for a smart guy how you can **be** so stupid? They aren't going to detonate it until the hearings start. And that's..." She looked at a clock on the wall. "About 45 minutes from now!"

"Well, if you know where they went then..."

"I know where **we're** going," Mabel insisted, grabbing Charlie by the arm. "Office, now!" She wasn't going anywhere without her grappling hook.

"Ms. Schuyler," someone shouted. Mabel turned with a glower and saw one of Chairman Rodino's aides. "We're getting ready to convene the hearings."

"But the hearings aren't until 10:00"

"Yeah, but the Chairman requested everyone appear in the chamber for half-an-hour before debate opens."

At this bombshell, Mabel felt herself deflate with worry and disappointment - and fear. Fear for her brother, fear for Wendy, fear for their mission. Though she tried her best not to show it. She looked askance at Charlie, who shrugged, unsure what he could say or do to help.

"Okay," Mabel said, nodding grimly. "Be there in a few minutes." She waited until the aide walked off, then turned back to Charlie with a look of forlorn disappointment.

"This is my destiny, Charlie, I guess," she complained, eyes downcast. "I have to sit in the hearings while all the important stuff goes down."

"Well, I'll be here for you," Charlie assured her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"No you **won't**!" Mabel commanded, smacking it away and fixing him a stare. "You are going to go help Dipper and Wendy!"

"But my whole thing was supposed to be..."

"Stop wasting time!" she commanded in the most forceful voice she had. "I don't **need** any help here to sit and listen to gas bags talk. Dip and Wen are fighting bad guys with guns and bombs and who knows what else. If I can't be there to back them up, you'd better!"

"But you know I'm completely useless against..." Charlie sputtered helplessly, unable to finish the thought, vanishing into self-pity.

"You _know_ that's not true," Mabel told him, not softening her tone. "Geez, how many times do I need to reassure you? Now go, go, go!" And she fairly pushed Charlie away from her. He shot her a baleful look then hurried away, hoping that he could remember where exactly they'd went, mind racing with all the ways he could screw things up.

 _Goodbye, Charlie,_ Mabel thought sadly, watching him skitter into the crowd. _You, Wendy and Grunkle Stan are the only people I trust to keep my brother safe._

And so Mabel resignedly walked towards the hearing room, sending a silent prayer that her favorite people wouldn't be harmed, at least long enough for her to join them. For now, it was all she could do.


	24. Chapter 24

**July 25th, 1974**

 **9:30 am**

Wendy fiddled with a hairpin, trying to unlock the door Pemberton and his goons had vanished into while Dipper distracted the policeman standing nearby. Dipper had no clue about making small talk with someone forty years in the past, but fortunately (or not), the cop had some very strong opinions on pressing issues of the day...notably, baseball. And a very specific subject, at that.

"I'm telling you man, this...Negro, Hank Aaron, only beat Babe Ruth's record because baseball is such a different game these days. Parks are shorter, balls are livelier, hitters have an unfair advantage these days."

"I dunno man," Dipper muttered, not sure how to respond. (He wasn't exactly a baseball fan, but from personal experience, he knew soft bigotry when he heard it, knew it would only take a few twists to bring out the toxic hatred unfiltered.) "I mean, you could just as easily make the argument that Babe Ruth didn't have any black players to compete against."

Dipper watched a hard, uncomprehending scowl fix itself on the cop's face. He braced himself for the inevitable tirade to come.

"Well, Hank Aaron didn't have any Babe Ruth to slug against, either! Do you think if he were playing in the day of Cy Young or Bob Feller that he'd be hitting all these homers? Nah, it's just cheap tricks and entitlement. Entitlement of a black ballplayer trying to prove he's better than any white man. Taking away a title away from a white man who made kids happy every time he trotted onto the field. How many people cheer when Black Aaron hits a homer? I know lots more people that get angry just at the sight of him."

"You think if Babe Ruth had to play against Satchell Page, he would have done as well?" Dipper challenged, wanting to fight back even if he barely knew what he was talking about.

"One good player doesn't change the point!" the cop said. "Exception to the rule! And Page never had to play against Babe Ruth, besides, did he?"

Wendy, within hearing distance, kept her thoughts on this rambling to herself (she'd overheard her dad and brothers make many similarly heated, though less bigoted, arguments on sports in her own life) and finally managed to click the door unlocked. She silently pumped her fist, then carefully flicked the hairpin in Dipper's direction. Dipper heard the _tink_ on the floor beneath his feet and pulled himself away.

"Well, it was nice talkin' to you," Dipper said, tearing himself away from the policeman, who didn't seem half-done sharing his opinion but nodded and waved in recognition that he had a job to do. Dipper acted like he was going into the garage, then when the cop had turned to another man asking for directions, he crept over to the door where Wendy was impatiently waiting.

"Took you long enough," Wendy whispered, stealing a glance at the cop, who apparently had found another sounding board for his Unified Hank Aaron Theory.

"Sorry, it was hard to shut him up he once got going," Dipper admitted.

The two slowly opened the door and slunk inside, closing it carefully behind them.

* * *

It was a long passageway, lined with ugly, cracked, undecorated concrete like a bunker, flickering fluorescent lights overhead. The two moved forward carefully, as quietly as they could, unsure how far ahead Pemberton was, how many goons he had with him, whether they were laying some kind of trap.

Wendy led the way, cautiously, deliberately, ax cradled in her arms, a seasoned huntress stalking her prey. Dipper, unarmed and nervous as ever, swiveled his head around at every step, expecting an attack from any corner, booby traps or goons materializing from the walls. Thankfully, all he did was make his neck sore.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, they came to the end of the corridor. It forked off in two directions, one an open door to the right. Wendy moved ahead, gesturing for Dipper to take cover against the wall. Dipper obliged, trying to hide his racing heart as Wendy burst into the room, waving her ax around, looking for enemies.

She emerged a moment later. "Storage closet," she said, sounding disappointed that there wasn't anyone's ass to kick. She started moving down the left fork of the hall, until Dipper grabbed her arm.

"Hey, I know it's a long shot, but, um...you mind if I take a look for some kind of weapon?" he asked. "I mean, not that I don't trust you, but..."

"Not a bad idea," Wendy agreed. "Can't do all the work myself!"

She stationed herself in front of the closet as Dipper rummaged around the closet for something suitable. He found boxes filled with newspapers and assorted scraps, old janitorial uniforms, unidentified tools, before spotting a long wooden stick. He hoped it was some kind of bat or stick he could use, then he pulled it and revealed...a mop.

Wendy laughed. "Well, if we need to clean up their hangout, that's perfect," she snarked as Dipper sheepishly twirled the mop head around, splattering himself with dust.

"Give it here, Dip," Wendy said, resting her ax against the wall as Dipper coughed. She examined it for a moment, then snapped it over her knee. She threw the mop head down, handing the broken handle to Dipper.

"Here ya go," she said. Dipper looked it over, nonplussed.

"Um, so do I stab with this or hit people or...?" The thought of stabbing someone with a piece of wood made him queasy.

"It's your weapon dude," Wendy said. "Use your own discretion. Come on."

And so they continued down the hallway, noting only one dim light overhead in this section. Wendy silently pointed out what looked like another door at the end of the hall, bright yellow light and shadows splashed against the cul-de-sac. Dipper could even hear whispers, felt the hairs on his neck stand up.

He spun the stick around in his hand, preparing for battle, trying not to notice the sweat in his palms and under his arms...God, he was _always_ going to be the sweaty guy, wasn't he? Even in another person's body, technically? All these years and I still clinch up when I get into a tense situation...

Then he felt a sharp rap against the back of his head, felt his knees go slack, saw black and red as he fell to the floor, heard the mop handle clatter against the floor. He wondered if they had been followed, if his attacker somehow had concealed themselves in the closet or a hidden compartment, if it really mattered when he and Wendy were likely to die.

* * *

"Hands up, Red," a voice barked.

Wendy turned and saw a large, grim-faced man in a suit aiming a pistol at her. Dipper was crumpled up at his feet, groaning and stirring but not fully conscious.

"Dipper!" she shouted, not caring if she alerted the others down the hall.

"Against the wall," the man commanded, gesturing with his gun. Wendy dropped her ax and complied.

"Are you okay, Dip?" she asked. She then cried out as the man pinned her arms behind her back, slamming her full force against the wall. She heard him reaching into his pocket for something - handcuffs, maybe?

"You two stumbled into something that wasn't any of your business," the man rasped into her ear. "Fortunately for you, everything will be over in a short time. You and I and everyone else here are gonna experience a Reckoning. So you can thank God that your suffering will be brief."

Unseen to the man, Wendy's face hardened into a determined scowl. She knew she didn't have much time, she had to strike quickly, at just the right moment, in just the right way. But how?

From the corner of her eye, she saw Dipper slowly creeping across the floor, hand wrapping around the mop handle. And she smiled.

"Suffering isn't really my style," she retorted. She tensed every muscle, preparing to move...

Then the man howled in pain, loosened his grip and stumbled backwards.

With lightning speed, Wendy turned around, grabbed the man's arm and twisted him around. Within moments they had completely reversed positions, Wendy pinning him against the wall, her squeezing his arm tightly against his back, his gun falling to the floor.

"Dipper, you all right?" she asked again. She saw Dipper, still groaning as he stumbled back onto his feet, brandishing the stick, now even shorter than it was before.

"I'm alive," he muttered, though he had to steady himself against the wall for a moment. Wendy saw a small trickle of blood starting to mat his hair.

"All right, fucker," Wendy growled in the man's ear. "You wanna talk suffering? How about you help us out or I split you in half? Sound like a plan?"

"It won't matter anyway," the man complained. "Seraph is already..."

Wendy squeezed harder, making the man cry out. She gestured towards her ax with her head. Dipper obliged, walking over and handing it to her, and she placed the blade against his throat.

"Not gonna ask you again," Wendy said.

"Do you realize what you're dealing with?" the man sputtered, though his quavering voice and frantic eyes betrayed fear.

"Listen pal," Wendy snarled. "My friend and I have dealt with people and monsters and beings far stronger than some loopy cult with a bomb. Not afraid of you, nor him, nor Seraph, no matter what you have planned. So either you're gonna help us out or you aren't even gonna live long enough."

"I'm ready to die for Reverend Gleeful, if I must," he insisted.

Wendy smirked. "Really?" And she raised the ax over her head, then brought it down right next to his ear. Close enough that he could feel the cold steel against his skin...

"AHHH!" he screamed. Wendy looked back towards the door, expecting assorted cultists to come out, guns blazing, to save their friend. Amazingly, no one had reacted; they were still in the next room, still whispering, as if they couldn't hear what was going on right outside. Fine by her, though it made her suspicious.

"I think we understand each other now," Wendy said, hefting the ax over her shoulder and releasing her grip.

The man slid to the ground, trembling. He stole a glance at his pistol, laying on the ground just within his grasp. Before he could move, Wendy snatched it off the ground, broke it open, and ejected the shells from the chamber, then smashed it against the wall. She threw the pieces down in front of him.

"Maybe you guys are talking sense," Wendy said coolly. "Maybe you're right about Reverend Gleeful and buds being the path to salvation. I, for one, am dying to find out before it's too late." She turned with a grin towards her partner. "Whaddya say, Dipper?"

"I'm always open to new ideas," he responded with what snark he could muster through a crushing headache.

"You okay, man?" Wendy asked again, showing concern.

"I can stand," Dipper insisted, though he still wobbled.

"Anyway, you're gonna help us find religion," Wendy said, turning back to the man. "Help us get right with the Good Reverend. What do you have to lose?"

The shine from her ax blade answered that question better than anything the man could have said. He nodded grimly.

* * *

"Everything's moving into place," Oliver Pemberton reported into a telephone in his command center, a large but strangely cramped room beneath the Capitol. He sat into the "We're moving the bomb into place as we speak, priming it for an explosion."

"I am glad to hear that," Reverend Gleeful responded. "How long until the bomb detonates?"

"If everything goes according to plan, within the next 30-to-45 minutes." He didn't mention that Monahan was still tinkering with his custom-designed detonator, still unable to guarantee it would work.

"Excellent. I'll have Joaquin arrange my flight back to DC once the fallout subsides. I'm sure a lot will happen in the meantime, but it will be a small price to pay for Salvation."

Pemberton balanced the phone in his hand for a moment, moving his head around the interior of his office, watching his men move the warhead into place. He wondered if he should tell Gleeful about the suspicions he had, but decided against it.

"I commend you on your work, Brother Pemberton," Gleeful continued. "I sincerely regret that you cannot join me in our new world."

"I am happy to do it," Pemberton affirmed. "It means that I'll be with my son again much sooner than I'd expected."

"May God give you strength and peace," Gleeful said before hanging up the telephone.

And Pemberton stepped away, smiling grimly. Those damn heathens - that punk Anderson and his redhead friend, that degenerate Schuyler and her apostate partner - weren't in any position to stop them, even if they knew. Besides, they'd have to fight their way through a dozen of his men to help pull it off. That didn't seem likely.

He looked overhead at a large clock - 9:50. Time was running out. If he had any doubts about what he was doing, he bit down on them. Too far to pull back now.

* * *

"Brother Ash, did you take care of those punks?"

The Gleeful goon's query was answered not by his grim-faced colleague, who went flying full-force against a wall, but by a blow from Wendy's ax head which rendered him unconscious. A compatriot, surprised, reached for a gun until Dipper rushed forward, knocking him in the stomach with his elbow, then kicking him into a table which fell on top of him.

Wendy stepped forward, carefully watching the other two men groaning and writhing on the floor. Then she grabbed her hostage again and pushed him forward.

"Not bad for someone who just got his head smashed," Wendy told her boyfriend. Dipper smiled, then winced with pain and staggered backwards again.

"Dude, are you gonna be able to do this?" Wendy asked. "If not...I mean, it's okay."

"Too far to go back," Dipper said, forcing himself to his feet with a smile. "I mean, what am I gonna do, walk back out of the secret bunker and drive home?"

"Good point," Wendy smiled. She turned back to the henchman she was holding at ax-point and prompted him forward.

"Okay, so these losers are done," she said. "Now tell us, where are you keeping the bomb?"

"They should be moving it in now," Ash said. "They've got an old warhead from a decommissioned missile and they brought in an expert to detonate it."

"An expert?" Wendy wondered at that. Then she remembered their encountering Becky and wondered if Chandler were still alive and dangerous.

"Okay, that's cool and all, but you didn't answer **where**." Wendy gently prodded him.

"Just keep walking down the corridor," he gestured. "There's a giant office there, you'll enter through a catwalk. But...I expect you'll be getting a warm reception."

"Dude, don't tell me what I already know," Wendy said. "But thanks, I suppose."

He shook his head, sitting down for a moment. "I wish you wouldn't interfere with what's destined to happen," he muttered.

"This may shock you," Dipper said, pulling himself together, "but this actually **wasn't** destined to happen. Trust me, we know. That's why we're here - to stop it from happening now."

Brother Ash looked askance at Dipper, then looked to Wendy, who nodded. He was skeptical, but at this point he didn't know what to believe. He certainly didn't expect a redhead with an ax and a sweaty, nervous White House staffer to kick his ass just before Armageddon. So he was, at the very least, inclined to listen.

"If this is true," he said, "then what will become of us?"

"Dunno what happens to you or your boss specifically," Dipper continued, "but the world doesn't end, Nixon leaves office in about two weeks' time, the government doesn't collapse, and everything lasts for at least another forty years. I mean, nothing about the world ever gets anywhere near perfect, but a lot of people get to live and die like normal people who otherwise wouldn't have."

"You forgot iPhones, dude," Wendy reminded him jokingly.

"Normal people?" Ash asked. "Don't you think we should be part of something more than just our biological bodies?"

"Maybe," Dipper affirmed. "And, I mean, I'm not gonna judge anyone who believes in something more. But that's all we know for sure, and that much is important to me."

"Besides, your boss is a psychopath and a tax cheat," Wendy reminded him. "That's one poor messiah to follow. And think about it. He's gonna use you guys to kill a whole lot of other people while he hides out God knows where. Guess he's counting on you not to be around to feel foolish."

Ash looked as if he'd never thought about that before, as if Wendy's words were a revelation rather than an obvious statement of fact. He looked around from Wendy to Dipper, then sighed audibly.

"Guess what you're telling me now isn't any more full of shit than anything else I've ever believed," Ash said, his voice becoming high and rambling. He stood up and started rambling, as if he was becoming unhinged. "But I still have an obligation to Reverend Gleeful, still have to carry out the project. It's too late now...it's too late now..."

Wendy, surprised and frightened, moved into a fighting stance, preparing to clobber him. He took a step forward then, to her and Dipper's surprise, passed out on the floor. Dipper and Wendy looked at each other, shook his body to make sure he was unconscious, then shrugged.

"Guess the fighting and the panic got to him," Wendy guessed.

"Maybe," Dipper said. "Or the truth short-circuited his brain." He prodded his body again with his foot; he twitched, but didn't get up.

"Three down, who knows how many to go?" Wendy said. "You ready, Dip?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Dipper said. "Ahh!" He had touched his head wound again.

"Dude, stop doing that." She pulled him forward, steadied him on his feet. Then, when they were ready, they moved into the next room.


	25. Chapter 25

_Author's note: The ending approaches! Hoping to wrap this story up in time for Christmas. Warning that there will be some (hopefully not excessive) violence in the chapters ahead, and I can't vouch for every character making it out okay. It's a time travel arc; anthyding can hadplen._

 **July 25th, 1974**

 **10:00 am**

Charlie tried to follow Mabel's instructions. He really did. But he could only remember the vague direction which Dipper and Wendy went in, hadn't actually seen which tunnel they'd entered after they tore themselves away from him. At one point he _thought_ he'd found it, went down a stairwell to what looked like a hidden corridor, but only stumbled across a parking garage and a Capitol policeman who had Very Strong Opinions on sports. Frustrated, he cursed under his breath and rushed back upstairs, wandering around the lobby in a daze.

"Simon," someone said. And it took Charlie a long moment to remember his "ordained" name. He turned and saw the Apostle Paul standing a few feet away, his face showing surprise, with a woman in casual dress and wild brown hair standing alongside him.

"Surprised to see me?" Charlie asked.

"One of our friends told us that you had died in a car accident yesterday," Paul remarked. Charlie couldn't believe it; either he was lying, or the person who seemed like the Number Two Gleeful hadn't been aware of a high-ranking turncoat being executed? If so, the Church of Revelations was even more messed-up, paranoid and compartmentalized than he'd imagined.

 _Just like President Nixon_...no wonder they worked so well together.

"God has other plans for me," Charlie said mysteriously, hoping his colleague would appreciate the answer. Simon indeed nodded his head reverently, acknowledging his friend's Divine mission.

"I was not aware that you were to taking part in the operation," Paul said.

"Change of plans," Charlie said. "It is not meant as a reflection on you, just..."

"No, I understand," Paul replied. "The more the merrier, huh?"

"And who is your friend?" Charlie asked, thinking the girl looked familiar but unable to place her.

"This is Sister Becky," Paul said benevolently, putting his arm around her shoulder. She instantly slapped it away.

"Don't call me that, you fucking creep," she snarled. And Charlie guessed that she was Wendy's "friend."

"She assisted us in carrying out a distraction as our other friends moved the weapon into place," Paul said. "Ensuring the Capitol police were tied up dealing with a minor disturbance so as not to notice the world-shattering one."

"I assumed the police were assisting us," Charlie ventured.

"Some of them," Paul affirmed, "but we couldn't take any chances. It's not easy to transport something so large, even underground. That's why we'd hoped for Sister Becky's group to assist us, but...obviously that didn't work as planned."

He smiled and leered at Becky, who was clearly unhappy and uncomfortable in his presence. "We are extremely grateful for her services. We may have markedly different views of God's place in the world, but on the destruction of the Old Order, we are one."

Charlie struggled to control himself, feeling deeply creeped out by the whole situation.

"You keep some very interesting company," Paul accused. "Why are you spending time with that Congresswoman from New York? Miss Schuyler is not a member of the Church, not anyone who should have any knowledge of our workings at this time. And you wonder why our brothers have questioned your integrity. Very indiscreet."

"I've been trying my best to win her over," Charlie lied. "Figured we could use another voice on the impeachment committee."

Paul arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Well, that didn't stop her from giving that silly little speech last night."

"True," Charlie said. "But it doesn't matter until she votes - does it?"

Paul nodded knowingly; Becky just stared at him, glassy-eyed.

"Anyone else think this is, um, an indiscreet discussion to have in a public place?" Charlie asked.

Paul laughed. "Very well, let's get to work." And he gestured for Becky and Charlie to follow him into a small anteroom. Charlie started to clench up, worried about his friends, let alone himself; despite their planning, they didn't really have a concrete strategy beyond "meet up at the same place."

And what about Mabel? She'd play her role as long as she could bear it, but at some point anxiety would get the best of her. Charlie knew that she wouldn't let her friends and her brother go into harm's way without her and a grappling hook by her side. But Mabel running around the lobby like a headless chicken, with no idea of what to look for, wouldn't help anyone either.

Charlie followed his "allies" into the anteroom, what looked like an old study, barely accessible through a side door near the restrooms. There was a portrait of Henry Clay on one wall, another of John Nance Garner opposite it, a large clock and a bookshelf. And a uniformed policeman stood guard there.

"Whoa, this room's off-limits," the cop said, stepping up to block Paul. "You folks are gonna have to clear out."

"That's all right, we're here on business," Paul said.

"What business?" the cop said, folding his arms. Paul and Becky exchanged glances, Becky reaching into her pocket...

"Gideon," Paul said, softly but firmly. The cop nodded and, without a further word, pulled a book from the shelf. The shelf moved aside, revealing a hidden elevator.

"Praise be upon you," Paul said, nodding to the policeman.

Charlie felt his throat drying out, anxiety overtaking him. Just as Paul and Becky prepared to enter the elevator, his panic overtook him.

"Brother Simon, what's wrong?" Paul asked.

"Nothing," Charlie insisted, pulling away as his head started to spin. "I just need to...I need a minute. You two go on without me."

"Are you ill?" Paul inquired. "Do you need assistance? This isn't the best time for you to fall sick, but we can..."

"I just need some air," Charlie gasped. Then he choked out a joke: "Not every day is the Day of Reckoning." And he walked off as quickly as he could without attracting attention.

Paul and Becky, suspicions raised, shrugged and entered the elevator. "Doesn't matter if he'll join us now or later," he assured Becky. "Reverend Gleeful has a plan for us all."

"Is it Gleeful's plan for you to feel me up?" Becky said, smacking his hand as it grazed her leg.

"He works in mysterious ways," Paul assured her as the elevator doors closed on them.

* * *

Right now Charlie slumped down in a restroom stall, his chest tightening and his breathing speeding up, sweat covering his body, leaving him incapacitated. The medicine he used in 2018 to help hadn't even been invented yet; so he just had to sit here and fight through it as best he could. Or, worse, as he .

Of course, of all times - _of all times!_ \- for his anxiety to get the better of him! Not when the Gleeful goons were kicking the shit out of him yesterday; not during the awkwardness between him, Mabel and Ariel Schuyler's girlfriend the night before. I don't care what Mabel tells me, I'm a failure - a loser - nothing. The world's going to end because I can't control myself. And won't _that_ be a fitting epitaph for Charlie Huston's life?

 **The World Ended Because He Was Weak.**

Or maybe another, less momentous but even more painful:

 **He Let His Friends Down.**

He wallowed in self-pity, on the verge of tears, for several minutes as these thoughts crowded his mind. Graphic images flashed through his mind of Dipper and Wendy being executed in the basement, their broken bodies laying next to the Gleeful High Fanatics as they detonated their bomb in a pool of his friends' blood. Mabel (let alone everyone else) being incinerated by the blast, her last moments of worry and anxiety and a feeling she wouldn't be able to help, to bring her awesome Mabelness to bear in saving the world. And himself, completely robbed of dignity or self-respect, dying pitifully on a toilet like that guy in _Jurassic Park_.

 _All because of me._

Then a single word entered Charlie's head: _No._

And he forced it to stay there, allowing the defiance to grow, the will to fight back to swell up inside him. He wouldn't let his friends down - couldn't let them down. Forget the world for a minute - he owed it to the three most awesome people he'd ever met.

Slowly, as he made himself fight back, the anxiety attack faded, his panic replaced with adrenaline, fear with grim determination. At last, he burst out of the stall and splashed water on his face, suddenly feeling energized. And he began to formulate a plan, not only to involve himself but to bring Mabel along and bring the whole Mystery Team into action.

All he needed now was a pen and a scrap of paper.

* * *

Mabel had dutifully taken her seat in the hearing room, had answered roll call, stared ahead and doodled on her notepad as the day's debate began. Charlie Wiggins began the day with a pompous, platitudinous defense of the President, arguing that there wasn't enough direct evidence for them to impeach Nixon. It was largely the same thing she'd heard from Sandman the previous night, only more polished, less snide and whining. But to Mabel, not any more convincing.

Not that she cared. She couldn't well focus on parliamentary procedure when Dipper and Wendy and Charlie were fighting for the literal fate of the world somewhere in the same building. Nor could she avoid thinking that the world could end at any moment anyway, without her knowing it even happened.

About ten minutes into Wiggins' argument, Mabel saw someone tap his fingers on the table on her desk, a slip of paper beside them. She looked up and saw Charlie standing over her.

"What are you doing here?" Mabel whispered, seeming surprised and angry. "I told you to..."

Charlie just gestured at the paper again. And Mabel impatiently looked down and read:

 **"IT'S NOT WORTH SAVING THE WORLD WITHOUT YOU"**

Mabel read this for a moment, let the words sink in, then smiled and nodded. She started to get up, then noticed several pairs of eyes creeping over to her. Mr. Wiggins stopped droning for a moment to look at her, then continued.

Mabel scribbled something over for Tom Railsback, the Congressman next to her, if it was alright for her to leave. Railsback shrugged and passed the note back without comment.

On his own, Charlie then scribbled a note asking for a recess and took it over to Chairman Rodino. Rodino looked at him disbelievingly and shrugged, mouthing the words "We just started!"

"Miss Schuyler needs to be excused for a moment," Charlie whispered to the Chairman. Rodino shrugged and mouthed "Go," shooing Charlie away. Charlie nodded and walked back over to Mabel, then tapped her on the shoulder. The two hurried out of the hearing room as discreetly as they could with 37 committee members and dozens of journalists and millions of Americans watching.

* * *

Wendy and Dipper slowly approached the entrance to the Gleeful command center. They saw a small door opening out to a catwalk which overlooked the room, which seemed more like a small warehouse than an office. Wendy peered through the doorway and counted about a dozen men standing or sitting around, including Pemberton, whom she recognized because of his tan suit, as opposed to the dress shirts everyone else wore.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she spotted two men with Schmeisers prowling about the catwalk (Wendy wondered if they'd bought them from her old pal "Saito"), and ducked back inside.

"Shit," she whispered, pressing herself flat against the wall as one of them walked past.

"That bad, huh?" Dipper said. Then he saw the shadow of the gunman in the doorway and ducked from the line of sight, holding his breath until they passed.

"You've kept us waiting a long time," they heard Pemberton's voice echoing off the walls.

"This is an old W25 warhead," a quiet voice responded; Wendy instantly recognized it as Chandler. "It's supposed to be detonated with a charge in the missile. That's hard to replicate with a jerry-rigged..."

"Well, that's why we asked for your help," Pemberton interrupted.

"Your people told me that it was an old atom bomb," Chandler snapped. "This is a warhead. I'm not a nuclear scientist, but those are two entirely different things. And this particular design, if you had done any research or actually, you know, _talked_ to your DOD buddies who gifted you this damn thing, you'd know it has a sealed pit which insulates the material from fire or external explosion. I'd either need a missile detonator or some kind of drill to get into it and make it work. Or maybe like 1,000 tons of TNT."

There was a silence. Wendy and Dipper leaned forward as far as they could without attracting attention, wincing as they heard of the gunmen on the catwalk cough.

"So, are you saying you can't get it to work?" Pemberton asked, menace creeping into his voice.

"What I'm saying is that it's not just as simple as sticking a pencil detonator or whatever shit your people gave me into the bomb and making it blow up!" He said it with more volume and anger than Wendy had ever heard him speak.

Wendy managed to peer around the door, just high enough to see Pemberton's body above the shoulders. As Wendy watched, he grabbed Chandler and smacked him in frustration.

 **"GODDAMMIT!"** Pemberton rasped. "You degenerate Bolshevik son of a bitch! We keep you alive to help achieve the Reckoning and this is how you repay us!?"

"You should have consulted me in the first place," Chandler insisted, pushing himself away from the Congressman. "I'd have helped you fashion some kind of portable device, or at least a conventional explosive with contaminated material, which as you'll recall was our plan. But you clever, clever gentlemen had to play sixty layers of deniability and keep us in the dark until the last minute, at least until you decide to show up and shoot our friend in the fucking head. So I don't want hear it from you, you goddamned reactionary creep."

Pemberton smacked the bomb maker again, so hard the echoed thundered around the room. Wendy ducked back out of sight as the guard tromped past.

"You'll find a way, boy," Pemberton said. "You'd better find a way."

"You and your goddamned doomsday," Chandler said. Wendy looked again and saw two men grab him and drag him off. "You guys aren't only insane, you're fucking STUPID!"

Pemberton waited until he was out of sight, then ambled over to his desk and smashed his fist into it repeatedly. "DAMMIT!" he shouted, before tossing his telephone across the room.

"Umm...what just happened?" Dipper asked.

"I dunno, Dip," Wendy said, sitting down and fiddling with her hair. "It kinda sounds like these guys...shat the bed on their own. So, like, they picked the wrong kind of bomb and they can't get it to explode."

"So wait a minute," Dipper asked, feeling dizzy and confused. "Then...Wendy, I don't get it. What happened in this alternate timeline? Why are we here? Why do we need to change anything?"

"Beats me," she shrugged. "Maybe something else we did along the way already stopped it. Somethin' that Blendin missed. Maybe the Gleefuls weren't supposed to kidnap this dude, maybe the FBI guy wasn't supposed to get blown up last night. Maybe it was one of those...man, I don't know how to explain it. Like, maybe the ripple effects of Charlotte and Rick dying were enough to mess things up."

Dipper sunk down the floor, rubbing his injured head and sighing in frustration. Then he got to his feet and started pacing and rambling.

"Man...this has been an awful twenty-four hours for all four of us, and it meant...nothing. At least, nothing we consciously did made a difference. Nothing we knew about had any impact. It was random. It all meant..."

"...Jack shit," Wendy finished for him. The two looked at each other and allowed themselves a quiet chuckle.

"Maybe," Dipper said. "Or maybe whatever really caused the explosion hasn't happened yet. There must be something we're missing..."

Then, as if in answer, they heard an electronic sound from down below. Wendy peaked again and saw...an elevator lowering itself into the room? Man, wouldn't _that_ have come in handy earlier.

The elevator opened and Wendy, to her surprise, saw a familiar figure step out. It was Becky, in the same outfit she'd been wearing the previous day. Only now, it appeared, splashed with blood. She held a pistol in one hand and something else Wendy couldn't make out in the other.

 **"ALL RIGHT, YOU CRAZY-ASS MOTHERFUCKERS!"** she shouted, aiming her weapon at Pemberton's head. "I've had it with you and your goddamn reactionary Church of Creeps and Crackers. This is a People's Liberation Vanguard operation now. Everyone puts your hands up or I'll blow your buddy's brains out."

Wendy leaned a little further out, saw the guards on the catwalk aiming the guns at Becky, then holding themselves back. Wendy popped back into the room with Dipper.

"One of your friends?" Dipper guessed. Wendy rolled her eyes, then grabbed her ax and gestured for Dipper to move behind her.

After a moment, she darted out onto the catwalk. Knocked out one of the gunmen with the flat of her ax, causing his machine gun to drop to the ground below. She kneecapped the second as Dipper moved and snatched his weapon away, then pushed the guard aside at ax point, forcing him to stumble backwards down a ladder. The first man's gun clattered against the floor, attracting everyone's attention. Including Becky's, whose face dropped in shock as she recognized her comrade.

"'Sup?" Wendy said, smiling cockily, with Dipper nervously training the gun down on Becky and the cultists.

Then Wendy got a closer look at the objects in Becky's hands. One was a small pistol, as Wendy expected. The other, once Wendy realized what it was, made her smile vanish in a stab of terror.

A detonator.


	26. Chapter 26

**July 25th, 1974**

 **10:30 am**

Becky and Pemberton stepped back as several Gleefuls dutifully wheeled in the nuclear warhead, mounted on a small crate. It was much smaller than Becky had remembered from the previous night (perhaps the shadows had played tricks with her eyes?), only about a foot-and-a-half long, but still imposing in its awe-inspiring power. She kept the Congressman at arm's length.

"Mr. Monahan, tell your friend what you told us," Pemberton insisted, as calmly as the circumstances allowed. "That there's no way to detonate this bomb. Isn't that right?"

Chandler ignored him and turned to his comrade. "What do you have there?"

"Just a standard detonator," Becky said, handing it to him as he inched closer. "Will it work?"

Chandler scratched his head. "Um, maybe," he said. "I might have to do some work on it..."

" _More_ work?" Pemberton laughed, inspiring Becky to pull his collar until he gagged.

"...and I'm still guaranteeing anything. But if I could try and drill through the shell, maybe I'd be able to

"Thought you told us that wasn't possible," Pemberton mocked.

"Not with the shit **you** gave me," Chandler responded.

"How long?" Becky asked. "We've put this thing off long enough. The hearing's started upstairs and we need maximum damage."

Becky looked up and waved her gun at Dipper and Wendy. "You, down here!"

Dipper and Wendy looked at each other, then resumed their stance.

"Why would we do that?" Wendy said, leaning against the railing with a mocking smile. "I like it fine right here. And that Pemberton means nothing to us."

"I'd have thought you of all people, Charlotte, would be for this." Becky seemed genuinely confused, even hurt by her friend's suddenly hostility. "You know what we're doing."

"Well sister, you thought wrong," Wendy snapped. "This whole thing is a load of crazy bullshit."

"When did you reach _that_ decision?" Becky demanded, releasing her grip on Pemberton. "You aren't backing out because you're chicken, are you? Or because you're ballin' that square from the White House? Bill was right, you've gone soft."

Wendy hesitated for a moment, then started climbing down the ladder, leaving her ax on the catwalk. Dipper moved to stop her, but she gestured for Dipper to stay in place. She would make one last, desperate wager that she could reason with Becky; at this point, it seemed a risk worth taking.

"Listen Becky," Wendy said, talking as evenly as the circumstances allowed, "let's say I don't try and stop you. Let's say you and Chandler here figure out how to fit that detonator into the bomb and you blow the Capitol to kingdom come. What do you think's gonna happen next? You think it's gonna send a message, start a Revolution? Like hell it will.

"Think about it. Think who you're working with. These dudes don't have _anything_ in common with you. Yet they're working with you to blow up the Capitol. Why do you think that is? What do think they'll get out of it?"

"It doesn't matter," Becky insisted, flashing her gun back and forth between Wendy and Dipper, whose trembling chattered the gun in his hands, and Pemberton, slowly backing away from her towards the bomb. "It doesn't matter what they want. We both want to blow up Washington and that's what matters."

"We'll all be dead," Wendy said. "What happens after that won't make any difference anyway. But let's say you think you're going out in a blaze of glory or something like that. Well, these guys are working with the US government. Hell, that guy there is a Congressman. He **is** government. They're using you to wipe out the President's opposition and let Nixon become president for life. Then all this bullshit about heightening the contradictions or whatever won't matter because he'll have the excuse to kill or jail everyone he wants."

"Bullshit!" Becky hissed, though her eyes started to betray doubt. Above, Dipper saw Chandler quietly examining the detonator.

"Why would I make this up?" Wendy said softly. "We've known each other for how long? I'm just tellin' you - nothing good is gonna come from this. All that'll happen is a lot of people will die and the people you hate most will be in charge forever. There won't be a revolution. There won't even be an America anymore. If there's anything left at all, it will be Nixonland."

"She's telling you the truth," Dipper chimed in from over head. "I saw the plans myself. That's why I'm here right now instead of, you know, at the White House or calling the cops on you. They're gonna use this explosion as an excuse to declare martial law. To re-deploy military forces overseas. To restart Vietnam all over again and pick a fight with the Soviets. And you know what that means..."

"Think about it," Wendy said, now within arms reach from Wendy. "All this started because of the war. And doing this, you're gonna give 'em an excuse to start it again. Only it's gonna be a bigger, even worse war than it was before. **That** will betray everything we worked for. Not my seeing sense at long last."

Becky looked at Chandler, still engrossed in his bomb making, then back at Wendy. She didn't notice Pemberton, who had backed out of her line of sight, gesturing to his colleagues to take their places.

Wendy reached out and rested a hand on Becky's shoulder, smiling.

"Come on, girl, be smarter than this," Wendy said with the soft assurance of a lifelong friend. "You're playing into their hands."

"So you're saying...to destroy the System it's necessary to save it?" Becky asked.

Wendy laughed. "Something like that."

After a long moment, Becky smiled back and lowered her gun. "Chan-" she said, turning to her comrade...

"Very touching," Pemberton interrupted. Wendy turned and saw him aiming a Luger at the both of them. Before Wendy could react, he fired twice, hitting Becky in the chest and stomach. She fell backwards, gasping for air, dropping her gun to the floor. She looked apologetically, pleading at Wendy before she fell over.

"Thus ends the People's Liberation Vanguard," Pemberton announced. He then aimed at Wendy's head; Wendy panicked and froze, staring at her imminent death...

Suddenly the room exploded into gunfire, the sounds echoing and forcing Wendy to cover her ears. Dipper had opened fire with his machine gun; being untrained with his weapon, however, his shots were high and failed to hit anything or anyone. They did, however, achieve their immediate purpose; Wendy used the confusion to roll out of harm's way, and kicked Pemberton in the stomach, making him fall and drop his weapon.

"All right, you bastards," Wendy said. "Now you've done it." She gestured to Dipper, who smiled and tossed aside his gun, then grabbed Wendy's ax and tossed it to her. She caught it in one hand, then waited until Dipper came down and joined her, still wielding his broken mop handle, splintered and comically small. Wendy shook her head and smacked it away from him without looking away.

"New plan: The world isn't ending today," she announced. She scanned the room; including Pemberton and Chandler, not including Becky or the two goons she and Dipper had already incapacitated, she counted nine left to fight. Those odds were a little long, even for her and Dipper, but she enjoyed the challenge.

"Any of you creeps have a problem with that?"

The remaining Gleefuls looked at each other in confusion. Then two of them drew handguns and aimed them at the twosome. And Wendy spotted a third moving towards the extra machine gun, still laying on the ground. Now Pemberton started raising himself off the ground, too, and was looking around for his weapon.

"Umm, that was a rhetorical question," Dipper clarified, not eager to face gunmen without any kind of weapon. Even Wendy struggled to keep her cool; an ax wouldn't do anything against a gun except at very close range, her arms trembling ever-so-slightly.

"Now what?" Dipper asked. Wendy stared straight ahead, her face screwed into a look of defiance. But she couldn't answer him.

Another gunshot rang out, hitting one of the Gleefuls in the leg. Wendy turned and saw Becky, trying to raise herself off the ground and aiming her weapon. She fired several more rounds which caused the Gleefuls to scatter. Wendy and Dipper nodded at each other; without saying a word, they leaped into action.

Wendy moved forward first, smacking Pemberton again with her ax head, then kicking another Gleeful to the ground. One of the armed men fired a shot at her, the bullet grazing her left ear; she cried out, her hearing temporarily lost to an inescapable ringing. Still she plowed ahead and punched the cultist in the chest and jaw, knocking him down.

By now, one of the other cultists scooped up the machine gun by the catwalk and started firing at Wendy and Dipper. Dipper, moving along the right side of the room, cried out and ducked, watching the bullets smash into the wall over his head. He took a moment to regain his breath, then saw another cultist approaching him, tall and tough-looking, though not evidently carrying a gun. He headbutted the man in his gut, taking him out of action, then ducked down again as another burst of fire sprayed towards him.

Becky aimed her weapon at the man with the machine gun; he noticed at the last minute and cut her down with another burst of fire. Wendy stopped and cried out watching her friend die just as she seemed about to do the right thing. But there was no time to mourn; two more men, these carrying truncheons, came forward, one striking her on the side of the head.

Wendy was momentarily dazed, but barely felt anything; she was still tormented by the ringing in her left ear, and had enough strength and adrenaline to recover and deliver a blow to the man's solar plexus, knocking him down. She blocked a hit from the second man with her ax handle, but when she tried to kick him he knocked her leg away and she fell to the ground with a thud.

She looked over and saw Dipper squaring off against another man who fired a pistol at him. Dipper, amazingly, managed to dodge the bullets and slid into him like a baseball player, knocking the much larger cultist down. Unfortunately, he fell on top of Dipper and her friend was, at least for the time being, out of commission.

Still, pretty good for a dude who just got his head walloped a little bit ago, Wendy mused. And this thought gave her enough strength to block another blow from her tormentor, to launch herself back on to her feet and smash her attacker's nose with her elbow. He fell, crying and bleeding, onto the floor.

Then Wendy looked over and saw the machine gunner aiming directly at her. And three of the less badly-injured Gleefuls were already staggering back to their feet for another round. Dipper managed to crawl out from under the man he'd knocked down, only for another of his tormentors to recover and aim a pistol at his head.

"Most impressive," Pemberton sputtered, dragging himself to his feet, approaching Wendy. "But you're forgetting one thing, dear," he said, pressing his gun against Wendy's temple.

Wendy heard a noise behind Pemberton and smiled in recognition. "Yeah, what's that?"

"You can't fight Fate," the Congressman sneered.

Then cried out as something hard struck him on the back of the head. He collapsed instantly to his knees, and Wendy saw Mabel reeling in her grappling hook, Charlie standing beside her.

"Mabes!" she cried out, pointing out the machine gunner who took aim at her.

"Just a second," Mabel said as her grapple returned. She and Charlie ducked into the elevator as a burst of gunfire smashed into the wall beside her.

"You ready for this, Charlie?" she asked, examining the ceiling for a target.

"Ready as I'll ever be," he admitted.

"Okay, grab on!" Mabel instructed. Not understanding, he slowly wrapped an arm around her shoulder, then she said "Tight as you can!" He obeyed, lowering his arms around her waste.

Mabel then stepped forward and fired her hook at the ceiling. She and Charlie soared through the air, Charlie terrified as he heard the cultist firing shots at them, bullets whistling through the air beside them. Mabel spun them around towards her brother and kicked the man aiming at Dipper to the ground, landing with a thud. Charlie fell over on his side, coughing for breath as Mabel sprung to her feet. Dipper hurriedly grabbed the cultist's gun and threw it aside.

"Mabes, that was incredible!" Wendy enthused, then saw movement from the corner of her eye. "Hang on." She turned and punched another cultist into submission.

"Anything is possible with a grappling hook!" Mabel beamed, feeling immensely proud of herself.

"We've got a couple problems," Dipper told his sister. "That guy, for one," he said, noting the machine gunner was approaching, loading another clip. "Plus, we need to stop that guy (he gestured at Chandler) from detonating that (pointing to the bomb)."

"Piece of cake," Mabel assured her brother. "The Mystery Team is assembled, and there's nothing in the Multiverse that can stop us!"

Even Charlie was on his feet now, still shaken but looking ready for a fight.

"Mabel, if we don't make it through this, I want you to know that you're the most amazing person ever," he told her melodramatically.

"Duh," she coolly. "Tell me something I _don't_ know." But she snuck in a quick kiss on his cheek anyway.

The foursome turned to Chandler Monahan, who still seemed in shock by the events unfolding around him. He dropped the detonator and threw his hands in the air, backing away from the bomb.

"Guys, this is not worth it," he sputtered, more to himself than the Mystery Team. "Not worth it at all." He looked balefully at Becky for a moment, then turned and walked backwards, hands still in the air, down a corridor and into his workroom.

"Huh, well that was easy," Dipper said.

Another burst of machine gun fire.

"That's not gonna be so easy," Dipper muttered.

"What's the plan?" Charlie said, cowering.

Dipper and Wendy looked at each other.

"Somebody's gotta be the bait," Wendy concluded. "Draw this dude's fire while the rest of us take him out."

They heard the shooter's footsteps; he was probably close enough that he could hear any plans they made. They looked at each other, imploring, begging someone to bite the bullet and make the first move.

"Yeah, but who?" Dipper asked.

Charlie suddenly leaped to his feet and shouted, waving his arms. "Hey dickhead, over here!" He ducked out of the way as the shots rang out, then instantly sprung back up. "Is that the best you've got?" Bang, duck.

Dipper and Wendy fanned out before Charlie could pop back to his feet. The gunman, confused, aimed his gun back and forth between them. He didn't notice Mabel rushing at him until it was too late; she jumped up and kicked him in the chest. The cultist grunted and fired a wild burst, then fell on his back.

Before Mabel could take advantage, the shooter pushed back and knocked her to the ground. Charlie dove in and pulled Mabel out of the way; Dipper rushed in and tackled his legs, then Wendy smashed his hand with her ax head and force him to drop the gun. Then Mabel leaped back to her feet and jumped in, the three fighting to subdue him as Charlie quietly crept over and emptied the clip from the machine gun.

Finally, after a protracted, exhausting fight, this last Gleeful was subdued, laying spent next to the bomb with which his church planned to end the world. The foursome stood triumphantly, battered, exhausted but victorious; the few Gleefuls still conscious made it clear, through the gestures and groans, that they weren't in any mood to fight any longer.

"Great going, everyone!" Mabel announced, crossing her arms in satisfaction. "The Mystery Team saves the world again!"

Mabel and Dipper did their twin handshake and laughed. Wendy and Charlie watched in amusement, then gave each other a hug, which seemed to surprise them both. They also burst out laughing at themselves, until Mabel and Dipper joined in and it seemed remarkably less awkward.

"I guess that takes care of that chapter," Dipper said, dusting off his hands.

"Not quite," Charlie said. He walked over and saw that Chandler had left the detonator on the ground. He stomped on it repeatedly until it broke.

" **Now** we're done," he said. "We just need someone to clean up this mess."

Then they heard a rumbling noise and a cough. And turned, and saw Pemberton raising himself to his feet, still clutching his pistol.

"Very well done," he sputtered, wiping blood off his mouth. "I'll admit that I underestimated all of you, very badly. I fear that you've merely postponed Armageddon, not ended it."

And he started backing away towards the elevator. Wendy took a step towards him, brandishing her ax.

"You're not going anywhere, pal," Wendy snarled. Mabel and Dipper flanked her, Mabel again cradling her grappling hook, while Charlie moved into place besides her.

"That's where you're wrong," Pemberton hissed, aiming his pistol at Wendy, then at each of her friends.

"I could kill all four of you right now, and no one would know," he said mockingly. "You'll all just sit here to bleed and rot until some policeman or custodian finds you and wonders what the hell happened here. Meanwhile, all I need to do is pop back upstairs, hide in my office and no one will ever know what took place. One of the privileges of being in government is that it's rare to be held accountable for anything."

"I think some of your friends upstairs might disagree," Dipper said.

Pemberton sputtered. "That? **That** is nonsense. I don't give a fig whether Richard Nixon stays in office or not, whether he lives or dies for that matter. That is humans engaging in human stupidity. Some of us have a higher calling."

"So you think _you're_ a God now?" Wendy asked him, taking another step forward until he leveled his gun at her again.

"No, but I **am** a member of the Faithful and a leader in His Elect," he said. "My mission does not end with one defeat, not with one failed mission or one aborted plan. It will only end when the Reverend Gleeful succeeds."

"Save it for your sermon, pal," Wendy snapped. She took another step forward, he took a step back. Despite everything that had just happened, his gun remained an equalizer. But they also recognized that he only had so many bullets...

Finally, Pemberton broke the impasse by turning around and rushing to the elevator. The Mystery Team broke out running after him; he fired four wild shots over his shoulder before finally reaching the elevator.

Wendy and Dipper inched forward, still ready to do battle, hoping to stop him at all costs. But Mabel had ducked to the ground. And Charlie was standing stock still where he was.

"Uh, guys," Mabel muttered, raising herself to her feet. And Dipper and Wendy turned around, saw Mabel's pale, terrified face, and lost all thoughts of stopping Pemberton.

Since Charlie was wearing a dark blue suit, it took them a moment to register what had happened. Then they saw the dark spot spreading on his breast. Then the red blood trickling down his dress shirt and pants. Then they watched in horror as he tipped over to one side, mouthing inaudible words, falling to the ground.

The last thing Pemberton heard as the elevator doors closed was Mabel's heartbroken scream.


	27. Chapter 27

**July 25th, 1974**

 **11:00 am**

By the time Blendin arrived in 1974, Charlie was dead. The time traveler found Mabel tearfully clutching his hand and kissing it, muttering for him to stay alive and that he'd be okay, even though he clearly wasn't. Wendy, her shirt covered in blood, had tried to stop the bleeding in his lungs using her survivalist training. But the bullet had done too much damage for her efforts even to delay it more than a few microseconds. Dipper sat alongside his sister, patting her back and staring numbly at Charlie's body.

They had, indeed, fulfilled their mission and saved the world. Theoretically, they could now go back to the present day and do their best to forget this ever happened. But for three people in that room, suddenly dealing with the unimaginable, that no longer seemed to matter.

"What happened?" Blendin asked, looking at Charlie. "Is he shot? Is he okay?"

"Does he **look** okay?" Wendy muttered, without malice but not comprehending his question. "That bastard Pemberton..."

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry," Blendin wailed, instantly seized with guilt. "I'm so sorry! I-I didn't mean to get your friend killed! I didn't think this would happen and..." And he managed to stop himself from completely losing control of himself.

"I-I didn't mean for him to die," he said, more subdued now. "I didn't mean for any of you to get hurt. I-I know he thought I didn't like him for some reason, but..."

"Dude, you didn't kill him," Wendy said, eyes fixed on her own bloodstained clothes. "Pemberton did. Charlie knew there were risks when he joined us."

"I know, but..." Blendin seemed on the verge of tears himself.

"Can you fix it?" Mabel asked quietly, not looking up from Charlie's body.

Dipper and Wendy's eyes moved towards him.

"You can send us back in time, right?" Mabel asked plaintively, stroking her dead boyfriend's hand. "You can save him! This wasn't supposed to happen. You can use your ruler thingy to go back a few minutes and keep him from getting shot. Right?"

Blendin stammered incoherent syllables. Theoretically, he could - sure. But he needed approval from his superiors to change even something so small. And he wasn't entirely sure he could get it.

"Maybe," Blendin muttered. And Mabel exploded.

" **Maybe**!?" she wailed, jumping to her feet, stepping over Charlie and rushing towards Blendin. "You can change it! Right now! You have the time travel gizmo right there!" She pointed at the ruler and grabbed for it, struggling with Blendin who tried to push her away. Her voice broke as she said: "Bring Charlie back!"

"Mabel," Dipper yelled, holding his sister back. "You know we can't just change the past because we want to..."

"We're not changing the past," Mabel insisted tearfully. "We're fixing the _future_!"

"It...it doesn't work that way," Blendin sputtered sadly.

He stepped backwards, his eyes creased with agony that he couldn't stop his friend's pain, even though he had the power in his hands. And Mabel started weeping uncontrollably into her brother's shoulder, Dipper muttering what reassurances he could into her ear.

"I need to get approval to change the timeline," he explained. "I-I would get in trouble if I do it without authorization."

"What's the process?" Dipper said, still holding his sister. "I mean, there's gotta be a way..."

"I have to travel back to 20713 and ask my superiors for authorization," Blendin explained. "I mean, hopefully it wouldn't take too long for them to reach a decision, but..."

"But?" Dipper said. "I mean, was Charlie supposed to die like this? I can't imagine that's in the timeline."

"No, I don't think so," Blendin admitted. "But...I mean, your great-uncle and I are about to send a time patch through. That will seal the timeline as you've altered it back into place and tomorrow, events will resume like before. Once we send that seal, no further alterations can be made."

"Can you delay it?" Dipper asked, still patting his sister on the back. Her cries had subdued to silent weeping. "Like, I know you guys are technically operating on a different time frame than we are..."

"I will do what I can," Blendin promised. He couldn't say anything more than that without lying or promising things he couldn't guarantee. But he knew, whatever Wendy had told him, that this _was_ his fault - that Charlie would be alive, that Dipper and Mabel would be happy in 2018 if he hadn't asked for their help. This was on him, and he was determined to fix it.

"I should be back in just a few seconds," Blendin said. "In your time, I mean. It could take awhile in mine..."

"Thank you," Dipper said quietly. Mabel turned her head and nodded at him, then resumed crying as Blendin beamed into the future.

* * *

"Blendin, the mission you've been entrusted with has been successfully carried out," one of the two Time Ministers insisted. In lieu of Time Baby, a regency had been declared by two of his oldest and most trusted advisers. Blendin usually spoke to them through his immediate superiors, but thanks to Weirdmageddon and the urgency of the matter at hand, he went straight to the top.

"There is no reason for you to further alter the timeline," the second Minister insisted. "You have prevented the destruction of the world in July 1974 CE, and that is all that you have been sanctioned to do. Anything more would be exceeding your brief, and would have grave consequences for the future."

"But sir," Blendin insisted. "Charlie Huston isn't supposed to die in this timeline. At least, not yet. Certainly not before he was even born."

"He knew the risks when he signed on," the second Minister said coldly.

"But wouldn't his death create another paradox?" Blendin said.

"Perhaps." The first Minister considered this, pulling up a digital data screen. "But there is something else that you're not considering. Charles Thomas Huston is not scheduled to die in either July 1974 or July 2018. But the person he's impersonating, Roger Anthony Sheffield, **is** supposed to die on July 24th, 1974."

Blendin's throat tightened in agony. "No..."

"Yes," the Minister affirmed gravely. "In the original, unaltered timeline he was murdered by the Gleefuls outside Alexandria, Virginia due to his acting as a government informant. Just by allowing him to live until July 25th, you and your friends have already changed the timeline. But this is an acceptable minor change that does little to impact the overall course of events. Anything more than that could have uncountable consequences."

"But..."

"Our decision is final," the second Minister added. "This event must remain unchanged, and you must send the Time Patch through **immediately**. Failure to comply will lead to an eternity in Time Prison. Considering the means to which you went previously escaping this fate, I don't think you'd like to repeat it."

Blendin nodded dumbly, deciding not to defy his bosses. At least not to their face.

* * *

"That is ridiculous!" Ford snapped. "You cannot just trade one time paradox for another - that's insane! Those blockheads know less about how to run a Multiverse than Zanthar, and he's a demonic, headless bread loaf!"

"The Ministers Regent have spoken," Blendin mumbled robotically, though his guilt and pain showed through his words. "I'm not allowed to alter anything further."

Ford struggled to control his anger. He didn't know Charlie very well, but he wasn't going to let Dipper and Mabel lose one of their closest friends. Not if he could help it. Fortunately, this had an easy fix.

"It just so happens that the Time Patch device you retrieved for me is on the fritz," Ford said matter-of-factly.

"W-what do you mean?" Blendin asked.

"Take a look." Ford showed Blendin the device, which resembled a small laser cannon.

"All we need to do to send the Time Patch through is to fire this switch," Ford said, demonstrating. "Any second now we could do it. But, look."

He switched it on and off several times, and nothing happened.

"For some confounded reason, it's not working!" Ford said.

"Really!?" Blendin yelped in excitement. Then he looked over and noticed that Ford...simply hadn't plugged it in.

"Could take hours, even days to fix it," Ford continued, pretending he was examining the machine closely. "And think of the consequences! Plenty of time for new time anomalies to occur...or to be fixed."

Finally, Blendin took the hint. He smiled and nodded at Ford, who winked at him, then activated his time machine.

There weren't many people he'd take this risk for, Blendin thought, knowing full well the consequences. But Dipper and Mabel were two of them. If he could spare them any unnecessary pain or sadness, any needless complications in their already complicated lives, any punishment would be worth it.

* * *

"Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!" Mabel jumped up and down and hugged Blendin as he explained his plan.

"You would do that for us?" Wendy asked, impressed and surprised.

Blendin nodded, holding Mabel with one arm. "You kids didn't hesitate for a second when I asked you for help," he said. "You never have! And, well, I feel like I need to return the favor."

"Thanks, man," Dipper said.

Mabel pulled away from Blendin, sniffling heavily.

"Everyone needs to join hands," Blendin said as he brought out the ruler. "We might only get one chance at this."

"Sounds familiar," Dipper said to Mabel, who smiled. Then turned her eyes to Charlie.

"See you earlier," she said gently. And the foursome traveled back in time about 15 minutes...

* * *

"I could kill all four of you right now, and no one would know," Pemberton mocked. "You'll all just sit here to bleed and rot until some policeman or custodian finds you and wonders what the hell happened here. Meanwhile, all I need to do is pop back upstairs, hide in my office and no one will ever know what took place. One of the privileges of being in government is that it's rare to be held accountable for anything."

"I think some of your friends upstairs might disagree," Dipper said.

Pemberton sputtered. "That? **That** is nonsense. I don't give a fig whether Richard Nixon stays in office or not, whether he lives or dies for that matter. That is humans engaging in human stupidity. Some of us have a higher calling."

"So you think _you're_ a God now?" Wendy asked him, taking another step forward until he leveled his gun at her again.

"No, but I **am** a member of the Faithful and a leader in His Elect," he said. "My mission does not end with one defeat, not with one failed mission or one aborted plan. It will only end when the Reverend Gleeful succeeds."

"Save it for your sermon, pal," Wendy snapped.

She shook her head, looked around at her friends; it had taken a moment for them to realize that they were replaying the scenario they'd just experienced. She exchanged glances with Dipper and Mabel, who nodded, knowing what they needed to do to make sure things turned out right.

Pemberton took advantage of the pause to run for the door. Dipper and Wendy started after him, triggering the fusillade of shots. This time Mabel tackled Charlie to the ground...and cried out as pain tore through her right shoulder, falling to the ground on top of him.

Pemberton beat Wendy to the elevator by a few steps. Wendy swung her ax, attempting to block the doors, but he managed to close. Wendy's ax clanked off the doors and she cried out, "Dammit!"

She and Dipper stood in front of the door for a long moment, catching their breath. Then they turned back, and saw Mabel sitting up in Charlie's arms, with blood spreading on her pantsuit.

 **"MABEL!"** Dipper screamed, running to her. For a terrifying moment, he thought he had traded a friend for his sister. And that was something he couldn't abide...

"I'm okay," Mabel said, not too convincingly. "Oww!"

"Looks like it hit her shoulder," Charlie said.

Wendy came over and examined the wound. "Looks like it went clean through without hitting anything," she said, sighing with relief.

"Still hurts like the dickens, though," Mabel groaned. "Ahh!"

"Mabel, I can't believe you did that," Charlie muttered.

"You can't get rid of me that easy!" she chirped, with a cheerfulness that struck Charlie as extraordinarily inappropriate.

"Oh thank God, Mabel," Dipper said, hugging his sister as tightly as her injury allowed. "Thank God. Don't...couldn't you have thought of a way that wouldn't have scared the bejesus out of us?"

"Wish I had," Mabel groaned. "You don't think Blendin will let us try it again?"

"I'm not taking that chance," Dipper laughed. "I'm sure he can patch you up," he added.

Wendy looked up as the three of them hugged, relieved that they were all alive. Then she looked over and saw that Chandler had come out from hiding and was laying a coat over her body. Hesitantly, she moved away from her friends and went over, wondering if he'd accept any comfort from someone who'd just threatened.

"She was the only one who was ever...nice to me," Chandler said, crying. "The only one who didn't treat me like a loser. Even though we... She was the only one who..." His tears overcame any further attempts at eulogizing her.

"At least she did the right thing," Wendy assured him. She wondered at how far a woman, so young, so bright and dedicated, could have gone if she had taken a different path, and she too started to sob.

"I guess the Revolution's over," Chandler said. Wendy just nodded and smiled. He finally kissed Becky on the forehead and rose back to his feet, crossed himself, then slowly walked away, without once looking at Wendy.

Wendy rejoined her friends at the far end of the room, too busy celebrating to have really noticed what happened with Wendy. She was wondering what their next step would be, whether it was time to go home yet. She fumbled for her emergency transmitter, and hit it, closing her eyes and waiting for them dematerialize.

* * *

Pemberton struggled to straighten himself up in the elevator. He could hide the bruises, he could wipe away the blood, but his clothes were still a mess. And maybe he could hide his weapon, but it was still hot and smoking from being fired.

Everything had gone wrong, he thought. A plan that had been months in preparation, required all manner of painstaking maneuvers and strategizing. A plan approved and condoned at the highest levels - not only of the Church, his true allegiance, but the United States government. The President's involvement hadn't been any secret to him.

And for what? A few dead bodies in the Capitol basement. That didn't seem right. And he wondered what he could possibly tell Reverend Gleeful.

The elevator opened up on the lobby's anteroom, interrupting his thoughts. He looked up, straightened his tie as best he could...

And saw a uniformed Army officer, along with five men in civilian clothes, standing in front of him.

"Mr. Pemberton," the officer said. "Captain Branch. Secretary Schlesinger and General Haig would like to see you for an emergency briefing at the Pentagon."

"But, I have business..." the Congressman sputtered.

"Sir, this is not a request," Branch insisted. "Please come with us. We know you are armed, but all six of us have guns of our own. We would prefer not to make a scene."

Pemberton gasped a few breaths, then straightened himself up with what dignity he could muster. Then he nodded and exited the anteroom, escorted by two of the men. Branch signaled for the others to follow him as they boarded the elevator.

* * *

"You were awfully lucky, Mabel," Ford said, watching as a medical machine patched up her shoulder. "Basically a flesh wound, just tore some skin and soft tissues. I imagine you'll be sore for a few days, but nothing serious."

"You hear that?" Mabel crowed. "I'll be back in action right away!"

"So, let me see if I understand," Charlie said, still unclear on what he'd missed. "I died...and then you traveled back in time and saved me. But Mabel got shot..."

"It wasn't a _perfect_ plan," Mabel admitted, shrugging until pain stabbed up her shoulder. "But it worked! And I'd rather have a hole in my shoulder for a few days than no Charlie ever again!"

"I mean, I guess I prefer that too," Charlie said.

"Dude, it's over," Wendy said. "Just go with it."

"Well, Blendin said that the patch won't go into effect until the end of the day," Ford said. "Even if we send it now. Technically, there's still about 13 hours left to run before you can come back. But I'm sure if Blendin bent one rule for you..."

"It's no trouble," Blendin admitted. "It might screw a few small things up, but...I mean, it's already a mess, right?"

Dipper and Wendy looked at each other.

"You've already done so much for us," Dipper assured him. "There's no reason for you to get in any further trouble."

"Yeah, man," Wendy said. "If we can survive that mess in the basement, I'm sure we can find somewhere to chill for the rest of the day."

"Are you sure?" Blendin asked.

"This is a risk you're taking," Ford warned. "Just because you've defeated the main Gleeful plan doesn't mean you're completely out of the woods. Any number of things can happen in thirteen hours..."

The team stared in silence, pondering among themselves what to do. Then Mabel spoke up.

"You know, we've spent so much time in 1974 stressing out about saving the world that we didn't get to have any fun. Dipper and Wendy, you guys need to have a day on the town, or whatever! Use the Schuyler money and paint Washington red!"

"What about you?" Dipper asked.

"Me, I have a hearing to attend," she said. "A long, boring hearing." She smiled. "But it will be worth it, because I know someone who will enjoy being there."

Everyone, except Charlie, realized instantly who she meant.

"I mean, it would be great!" he said finally. "But, come on, Mabel, you don't owe me that..."

"Sure I do! This is like your favorite thing in the world! You'll be able to sit back and relax and watch history happen without having to worry about any creeps blowing us up! That's your jam! And I owe you one, remember."

"Umm, you took a bullet for me," Charlie reminded her.

"And you **died** for me!" Mabel insisted. And Charlie couldn't say anything to _that_.

"If you're all sure," Blendin sputtered.

"Wendy?" Dipper asked.

"Sounds fun to me," she smiled at her dork. "I mean, dinner last night was nice, but...maybe not being teleported into a death trap would be a fun change."

"Whenever you're ready," Mabel said to Blendin, and the four linked hands again.

Blendin smiled, grateful that they would at least try to keep things relatively on track after all that had happened.

"Send us to Ariel's place," Mabel insisted. "We can't well get ready for a fun day in DC looking like _this_."

"Okay," Blendin said. He whipped out his tape measure and the five of them disappeared, leaving Ford behind with his Time Patch machine. Only after they were gone did he realize something:

"Oh shit, I actually **can't** get this thing to work!"


	28. Chapter 28

_Author's note: Reaching the home stretch - just a few more chapters to wrap everything up. Thank you all for reading!_

 **July 25th, 1974**

Dipper and Wendy managed to enjoy their last few hours in the past. No longer worrying about saving the world, they took advantage of Mabel's generosity and Ariel Schuyler's bank account to take in Washington's sights and sounds.

They hit the usual spots, examining the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument, the Smithsonian and other hangouts. They enjoyed a corned beef lunch at Bob & Edith's Diner in Arlington (not the vaunted McDonald's), a drunken pork chop diner in Cantina d'Italiana at Dupont Circle, a walk by the Potomac River where they watched the sun set. It was another muggy day but a bit cooler, the city filled with tourists and businessmen and politicos, but they managed to ignore all that and have a pleasant time.

"So good to finally do some vacationing," Wendy said, reclining in the grass on the National Mall, watching some joggers run past. "This summer has been a chore, hasn't it?"

"So far," Dipper fretted, standing next to her. "And the summer's half over now. I hope we'll get a chance to solve some mysteries...I mean, **our** kind of mysteries."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Wendy assured him. "There's always something going on in Gravity Falls. And if you think about it...well, guess what we've been doing is more important than our usual adventures."

"Maybe," Dipper muttered. "Not sure how fun it's been, though."

Wendy sat up and grabbed at his hand. "Dude, you've been totally in your element. Solving mysteries, traveling through time, saving the world...this is all the stuff you always do! It's just...okay, you have to learn a little more about politics and a little less about the bite radius of chupacabras or whatever. But it's not like this isn't work! You and Mabel are still the Mystery Twins! And I guess me and Charlie are your sidekicks."

Dipper chuckled at that. "More like the other way around," he muttered.

"Dude, come here," Wendy beckoned until Dipper sat down beside her. She kissed him on the neck and cheek and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"You can't say this hasn't been fun," Wendy said between smooches. "I mean, hard, sure. Traumatic, yeah. Boring, occasionally. But it's none of those things at the same time."

"I'm just thinking...Mabel got shot, Charlie almost died...and that's not even mentioning what happened with the Northwest thing...man, this seems so much more _dangerous_ than it used to be."

"Dude, I once got turned into a banner by an evil triangle, okay? You're not gonna convince me getting smacked around by some humans is worse than that."

"Maybe," Dipper admitted, without the mirth Wendy hoped to invoke. She broke off kissing him and rested her head on his left shoulder as he stared at the sunset for a long, quiet moment.

"Maybe...it's just because we're adults now. It's harder to have fun the same way as we used to. I mean, Mabel does her best to be Mabel-ish, but even she's facing up to the fact that she's eighteen now. And me, well...it's been rough."

"You were always very mature for your age," Wendy reminded him, closing her eyes.

"Yeah, but...I don't know. It seems harder to avoid the consequences of things. Even when we were kids and dealing with all that stuff, the worst thing we might encounter is, I dunno, Mabel loses her pig or you date Robbie instead of me. Seemed harder to focus on what we were actually doing with all that petty, silly kids' stuff in the front of our heads.

"But..." He sighed. "I almost _miss_ that, you know? I miss having arguing over what movie we're gonna watch, or whether Mabel or I get the extra room in the Shack being the things that bug me more than some monster. I miss not having to worry about whether Mabel and I will grow apart, or whether I can make it as an adult, or..." And he left that thought trail off, with an even longer sigh.

Wendy opened her eyes and saw fireflies starting to flicker and dance above the Tidal Basin. It was the most beautiful thing she'd seen in ages, made her forget almost everything that happened over the past two days. She turned Dipper's head towards the spectacle and they both watched, entranced.

"We'll worry about that shit some other time," Wendy said, wrapping her arm around Dipper's. "Let's just enjoy _this_ , man. We've earned it."

Dipper smiled, reflecting back to their night at the lake together a few weeks ago, glancing at his girlfriend's smiling face, somehow glowing in the dim light, and wondering how it was even _possible_ that Wendy had grown more awesome and more beautiful since then. Or how it was possible that he could be unhappy now that they were a couple.

Well, Dipper would find a way to be nervous and unhappy under all circumstances. But for now, he managed to avoid it.

* * *

Mabel spent the day listening to more speeches, repetitive though many of them were, and somehow managed to enjoy herself. Occasionally she found her attention drifting to doodle and write nonsequitirs on her notepad, but without the stress of her own speech, let alone averting apocalypse, looming over her, she could return to her assessment of their histrionic qualities.

She wasn't overly impressed by most of the speakers she heard, most of them speaking in platitudes, competently but unstirringly. The two that stuck with her were both Democrats: James Mann, the genteel South Carolinian who provided a haunting description of what was at stake: "If there is no accountability, another president will feel free to do as he chooses. But the next time there may be no watchman in the night." Mabel didn't know that Mann referred to the actual, specific watchman who foiled the burglars; she merely loved the phrase's evocative eloquence.

The other was her newfound friend, Barbara Jordan. She'd been impressed by this black woman from Texas during their brief encounters the previous day, had seen Charlie's reactions to being in Jordan's presence. She thought he was just being Charlie - Hugh Scott certainly hadn't impressed her in their brief acquaintance - until that evening, when she finally heard Barbara's presentation:

"Earlier today," she began, her voice ringing with the rounded vowels and plumy eloquence of a fiery preacher, "we heard the beginning of the Preamble to the Constitution of the United States: "We the People." But when that document was completed on the seventeenth of September in 1787, I was not included in that "We, the people." I felt somehow for many years that George Washington and Alexander Hamilton just left me out by mistake."

 _Either that,_ Mabel laughed to herself, _or Angelica Schuyler indeed compelled them to include women in the sequel!_

"Today, I am an inquisitor," she thundered, gathering momentum as she spoke. "My faith in the Constitution is whole, it is complete, it is total! And I am not going to sit here and be an idle spectator to the diminution, the subversion, the destruction of the Constitution!"

Mabel practically leaped out of her feet and cheered. Instead, she leaned forward and listened to Jordan's devastating arguments, citing the Constitution and Federalist papers and myriad legal precedents with rapt attention.

"A president is impeachable if he attempts to subvert the Constitution," she concluded, citing a James Madison quote Mabel's researchers had missed. "If the impeachment provision in the Constitution of the United States will not reach the offenses charged here, then perhaps that 18th Century Constitution should be abandoned to a 20th Century paper shredder!"

It was the most amazing speech Mabel had ever heard, let alone witnessed in person. She felt there was no way an honest person, after hearing that, could possibly support the President. (Of course, deep in heart she guessed that many of her Republican colleagues would not be moved. But phooey on them.)

Maybe politics isn't so boring after all, Mabel mused as the next, less-inspiring congressman began his peroration. Or at least it doesn't have to be. And she no longer felt that she was staying in 1974 an extra night for Charlie's sake.

Unfortunately, her other gal pal, Liz Holtzman, was less eloquent; she seemed almost nervous and tremulous in her speech, despite making similar points. But it didn't matter...all the voices were in, the ladies had more than held their own, and formal debate would begin soon. Mabel almost regretted that wouldn't be there to take part.

* * *

"You're in a shitload of trouble, son," Al Haig told Chandler Monahan. "You participated in a conspiracy to murder the entire Congress of the United States. At the very least we could charge you with illegal possession of a nuclear device, and that's forty years in prison in and of itself."

Monahan rolled his eyes. Since his arrest he'd spent the whole day in a Pentagon hole being interrogated, along with several surviving members of the Gleeful clan. His experience watching Becky die a bloody, pointless death might have removed his revolutionary spirit, his willingness to do violence. But he still wasn't going to let a loudmouthed cryptofascist like this Haig intimidate him.

"There's also an outstanding murder charge against you in, I think, New Jersey?" He flipped through a dossier file. "Yes, Lionel Brown, murdered by you at Backupsmore University on the Eighth of June, 1973. I'm sure that was just another day in the Revolution for you, right? Nothing you'd have taken notice of, I'm sure."

"Only man I've ever killed," Chandler grudgingly admitted.

"Well, until last night," Haig said. "And an FBI agent, at that! And two policemen. Impressive. You've truly struck a blow for the Revolution now, huh?"

"Would you cut the bullshit, General?" Chandler snapped. "If you were gonna throw me in jail, you would have done it by now. What's the third degree bullshit?"

Haig dismissed his aides from the room and waited until they exited. Then he approached the young terrorist.

"If it were up to me, I would personally hang you from a meat hook with piano wire, like those generals who tried killing Hitler," Haig snarled. "Shit like you has no place in our country, or in the world of the living. But there are certain niceties that must be observed. And one of them is people believing that the United States of America is still strong, despite everything."

"Ha," Chandler mocked. Haig ignored it.

"Sooner or later the President's leaving office," Haig said. "Despite everything we're trying to stop it. They already know he's a criminal; that's bad enough. But if they know what else he tried to do - just today, for instance - they'd never forgive him, and they'd tear the whole country down with him."

His meaning slowly dawned on Chandler, and his heart sunk at the revelation. Even **he** hadn't thought that Dick Nixon was that evil.

"So, I'm gonna make you a deal," Haig said. He took Chandler's file and tossed it in a wastebasket. Then he melodramatically lit a match.

"The Reverend Charles Gleeful is soon returning to the United States," Haig said, tossing the match in with the file folder. "He knows about the failure of Gideon, if not the details, and he's decided to force the issue on his own, will return August 8th. He'll be met at the airport by police and officials from the IRS. But we can't allow him to get into custody, because who knows what he'll do after that."

"Where do I come in?" Chandler said, watching smoke start to rise from the garbage can.

"You are going to be the Keeper of a Very Big Secret," Haig said. As the flames started to rise, he took out a copy of the GIDEON operational plan and dropped it in. "I don't know if I can trust you, or anybody. But at this point, it's a risk I'm willing to take. You say nothing, you do nothing, and no one will ever prosecute you for jaywalking until you die. You can go hide underground or travel abroad or maybe become a teacher, whatever the hell you radicals do when you've lost."

"That's it?" Chandler asked. This was too easy.

"Not quite," Haig admitted. "Your friend Bill Epstein - he's still out there, alive. With a gun. And a reason to kill Charles Gleeful."

"What do you want me to do?" Chandler demanded.

"Just point him in the right direction," Haig said. "And things will sort themselves out."

They both fell silent, watching as Chandler's file and the GIDEON plans turned into ash, blackened sinews of burnt paper twisting round each other in the orange fire.

* * *

"Miss Jordan, that was the finest speech that I have ever heard," Charlie greeted the Congresswoman.

"I hope not, or my career is over," she said.

"Really though, that was **amazing**!" Mabel gushed. "You made me and everyone else look like silly little kids or pompous old men! How do you do that? What's your secret?"

"My secret? Be the daughter of a Baptist preacher and a Sunday school teacher. Go to school, become an attorney and then a teacher yourself. Apprentice under Lyndon Johnson, serve in the state legislature, then decide you're still damned fool enough after all that to want to run for Congress. You will become an eloquent speaker, if only by accident. Hopefully, Miss Schuyler, _some_ of those avenues are still open to you."

Mabel resisted her urge to hug Jordan, realizing that this stern, dignified woman might not appreciate it. Instead she laughed appreciatively and looked to Charlie, who seemed positively enraptured.

"Anyway, like I said, I enjoyed your speech," Jordan said as a reporter gestured to her. "This is not a competition, and God knows wit and forensic skills will not determine this hearing. But I appreciate winning the praise of such an...interesting young woman as yourself. I'll admit that I had a preconception of who you were and you've proven me completely wrong over the past few days. You are a credit to your district and your party."

"Aww, thanks!" Mabel said proudly. "And no sweat. We ladies need to stick together, right?"

"I certainly think we need to set an example," Jordan agreed, nodding. "And all three of us have done that. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Jordan tore herself away, leaving two starstruck time travelers in their wake.

"Well..." Charlie said. "If I die tomorrow, I can now say I've truly lived."

"Don't even **joke** about dying tomorrow," Mabel snapped, though she kept smiling. She was hoping to find Liz, but she didn't seem to be anywhere. Instead she blundered into Charles Sandman, just about the _last_ person she wanted to see.

"Miss Schuyler, I missed you for most of the day," he rasped. Charlie recognized Sandman and stared with awful fascination, like a zoologist observing a particularly repulsive specimen up close.

"Sorry, it was a family emergency," Mabel lied, smiling despite her dislike for the man.

"It happens," Sandman said. Then to Mabel's surprise, he offered her his hand.

"I didn't get a chance to say that I admired your speech last night," Sandman said. And this took Mabel by complete surprise. "It's nice to have someone pointing up the nicer side of this thing we're doing. History is happening, or whatever you said, that's well-put."

Mabel shook his hand, somewhat awkwardly. "Thanks. And you were certainly...forceful."

Sandman laughed. "Thanks for being diplomatic!" he chortled. "Tell ya what, this whole mess is really getting me down. And yesterday I said some things about you that were...inappropriate. I regret that very much."

"Are you apologizing to me?" Mabel prodded.

"In so many words. Anyway, there's no reason for either of us to be personal. There's gonna be a lot of debate to come before this all shakes out, and God help me, I'm gonna love it. It's the old boxer in me, I guess - even a losing fight can be invigorating.

"Anyway, thanks for hearing me out," Sandman concluded, patting Mabel on the back. Then he whispered: "And Jerry Ford is gonna make a great president."

He pulled away and smiled, then shook Charlie's hand and excused himself. Mabel and Charlie looked at each other quizzically for a moment.

"You know who that was?" Mabel said. Charlie nodded.

"The biggest meanie on the Committee!" Mabel said, still somewhat confused by their encounter. "But he was so nice just now..."

"He's a congressman," Charlie said. "He can be polite if he has to be. I'm sure he'll be cussing you out in the privacy of his office later."

"Maybe," Mabel said, though she wasn't sure.

"There you are, Ariel!" Liz Holtzman said, still looking flustered from her speech earlier.

"Hey!" Mabel wrapped the New Yorker in a hug. "You were wonderful!"

"Hey listen, your speech last night was swell," Holtzman said. "And, uh, I wanted to run something by you before we break up for the evening."

"The door's always open, sister!" Mabel said, mimicking a door opening and closing.

"Anyway," Holtzman muttered, somewhat flustered by Mabel's humor. "I've been talking with Maggie Heckler and a few other ladies about starting a congressional caucus for women. Sort of like the Black Caucus, I guess. We're enthusiastic about it, but we're having a hard time getting anyone to take the idea seriously."

"I don't see why," Mabel insisted. "Women need to speak for themselves as much as anyone. Let me know if you get anywhere with it, I'll be happy to help!"

"Thanks, Ariel!" Holtzman said. "And, I'm sorry, your name was Charlie?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Sorry I can't stick around, but...thanks."

"Well, it seems like we've done multiple good deeds today," Charlie said, impressed.

"That's the Mabel difference!" she said, ribbing her boyfriend. "Now, there's no reason my brother and Wendy should get all the fun! We've still got a few hours, and I've still got plenty of money."

"I could use a bite," Charlie admitted.

"Not just a bite, some actual food! Let's see if we can find somewhere ultra fancy!"

"They'd better have steak," was all Charlie could say.

* * *

"Blendin Blandin, you stand accused of one count of Unauthorized Alteration of the Past, and one count of insubordination. How do you plead?"

"Guilty," Blendin said with as much dignity as he could muster.

"Have you anything to say on your own behalf?" the First Minister demanded.

"I have no defense," Blendin said. "I did what I thought was right, and I will gladly face the consequences."

The Ministers briefly conferred with each other in loud whispers. Blendin stood before them in handcuffs, naked to their judgment and mercy. He expected none, especially given his past history. But he had no regrets about what he'd done that day, and didn't think they needed a defense. Or that they would listen.

"Very well," the First Minister said, clearing his throat. Blendin stood at attention.

"The charges against you are extremely severe," the Minister said. "The first would warrant a life sentence in Time Prison, the second 5 to 20 years in prison. Altering the timeline without authorization - indeed, in this case in specific violation of a refused authorization request - is a grave offense against Time Law. These are among the most serious charges that a Time Enforcement officer could face. Personal feelings, friendships and attachments to individuals cannot be allowed to change history.

"However," the First Minister added, "we recognize your predicament. By rectifying one time anomaly, you accidentally created another. I refer, of course, to the continued existence of Roger Sheffield and the untimely demise of Charles Huston. We have debated this matter among ourselves, and realize that whatever you chose would leave one loose end undone. You erred on the side of not dooming someone to an untimely death, which is admirable. And since his participation in fixing the larger time anomaly was vital, that will also be taken into account.

"We find you guilty on both counts. On the charge of Unauthorized Alteration, you will be sentenced to life imprisonment. This sentence, per consultation with my colleagues, will be suspended indefinitely. On the charge of insubordination, you will be sentenced to a 50,000 credit fine, which will be deducted in 100 credit increments from your monthly payments until such time as the fine is paid."

The Minister gestured, and the guards removed Blendin's shackles. He was still in shock at what he'd heard.

"We cannot condone your actions, but they amount to restoring the greater good. Your sentences will be carried out immediately. You will also be placed on one month of paid administrative leave."

"Thank you, Your Lordships," Blendin said, kneeling down in gratitude. "I-I don't know what to say."

"Thank you for your service, Blendin," the Second Minister said. "Now, I believe you need to complete your current mission."

Blendin snapped a salute and walked out of the courtroom. The first and second ministers waited until he left, dismissed their colleagues, then conferred among themselves.

"I feel that we should have at least sentenced him on the insubordination charge," the Second Minister complained. "This sets a bad precedent."

"There is no reason a young man needs to die because Blendin encountered an insoluble paradox," the First Minister said firmly.

"But what of Sheffield? Will he continue to live? And what are the consequences of that?"

"That is a risk I'm willing to take," the First Minister affirmed, inclining his chin to signify that his decision was final. The Second Minister scowled but did not press him further.

Afterwards, Blendin retrieved the kids, Ford fired the Time Patch through, and their mission was complete.


	29. Chapter 29

_Author's note: Have just two chapters plus an afterword remaining, so I'll put my shoulder against the wheel and see how much I can get done today._

 **August 8th, 1974**

With the timeline restored and our heroes relocated to the present, it only remained for the rest of history's squalid tragedy to play out.

The House Judiciary Committee voted to recommend impeachment to the full house on July 30th; the so-called "smoking gun tape" was released by court order on August 5th, eroding the President's remaining support; Republican Congressional leaders met Nixon two days later, convincing him that he no longer had the votes to remain in Congress and leaving him to draw his own conclusions.

And now he had made his decision. And he announced it in a speech both contrite and defiant, exposing all the raw agonies and hurts coursing through his mind.

"I have never been quitter. To leave office before my term is completed is abhorrent to every instinct in my body. But as President, I must put the interest of America first."

No doubt he thought, as he often did, of 28 years in public life, alternately loved and hated by the American people, a Rorschach test for the postwar era. Few seemed to regard him as human, as a man with dreams and ambitions of his own, that could never be fulfilled because he could never overcome the gaping wounds in his soul.

"I have never been a quitter. To leave office before my term is completed is abhorrent to every instinct in my body."

Not quitting for the son of a small town grocer and a saintly Quaker mother, who saw two brothers perish in childhood, who went to Whittier and Duke and bore the snubs and sneers and slights of higher-placed classmates to get ahead, who gave up a cushy desk job for military service, who had to fight, claw, scrap his way into Congress, then to the Senate, then beg Ike and the Nation to be their Vice President, that he was neither a quitter nor a crook...No quitting, **ever** , no matter the odds or the humiliation that line the road to deliverance.

The litany of decades, sixty years of resentment, played through his mind constantly. And he couldn't help thinking, despite it all, despite his best-laid plans and a Hail Mary pass that fell just short of the end zone, that they'd finally won.

"But as President, I must put the interest of America first. America needs a full-time President and a full-time Congress, particularly at this time with problems we face at home and abroad."

He still had Rabbi Korff, still had Reverend Moon, still had his family (poor Julie, he thought, dragging her reputation through the mud on his behalf - maybe the one sincere regret he had about the whole thing) and 24 percent of the American public on his side. But just about the only Congressman still on his side was Earl Landgrebe, a pathetic Bible thumper from Indiana who told the Today show that "I'm going to stick with my President even if he and I have to be taken out of this building and shot." Real heroes were not made of such absurd bluster, only fools.

"To continue to fight through the months ahead for my personal vindication would almost totally absorb the time and attention of both the President and the Congress in a period when our entire focus should be on the great issues of peace abroad and prosperity without inflation at home."

 _You don't know what you'll be missing, you sorry, sanctimonious fuckers._

"Therefore, I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow."

 _Let someone else clean up the mess you bastards have made._

"Vice President Ford will be sworn in as President at that hour in this office."

 _Just thank God you don't have to deal with President Agnew._

* * *

Charles Gleeful didn't look much like a messiah when he arrived at Washington National Airport just after dark, wearing a shabby gray sport coat with an American flag pin on one lapel, a cross on the other. Besides which, it seemed an odd night to return, all things considered. Reporters who knew about his trip speculated whether he hoped to be a comfort to the President right before his resignation. Others might have known that the IRS filed formal charges against him two days earlier, that the State Department had just revoked his visa, and that the Paraguayan government refused to give him asylum.

Or maybe, at this point, he was deluded enough to think that his mere presence in the Capitol might trigger the reckoning he'd hoped for, despite everything that had happened in the past few weeks. It had been decades since Reverend Gleeful had much connection with reality.

Either way, the moment he stepped off the plane he was greeted by about a half dozen policemen, along with two men in drab civilian dress. Gleeful faced the first man, a middle-aged gentleman with thinning blond hair and coke-bottle glasses.

"Mr. Gleeful, Brad Jurgovich, Internal Revenue Service," he said, nervously brushing his nose with the back of his hand. "You understand that I'll have to take you into custody?"

"Yes, I understand," Gleeful nodded, dignified, resigned, pointedly refusing to make eye contact.

"We can take you directly to the car," Jurgovich offered. "No handcuffs or anything unless you resist arrest. We saw a few reporters lurking around outside, it might be best to avoid them."

Gleeful nodded in acknowledgment, allowing the IRS men to lead him through the airport.

It was a slow night, with only a few tired business travelers around. As they approached the parking lot, a single reporter approached with a cameraman snapping pictures. The rest, surely, were preoccupied with the President.

"Reverend Gleeful," the reporter asked, "Tom Sandusky of the _Washington Star_. We've received word that the President will announce his resignation tonight. Do you have any advice for the President?"

Gleeful blinked as Jurgovich pulled on his arm, trying to pull him away from the reporters. But the old ham couldn't resist a microphone.

"It is a shame that this country has been brought to such a sorry state. The President has made mistakes, but he is only human. As I have been saying, it is our duty to follow God's will and forgive the President, moving on to the business of serving God and uniting the country behind him. I see no reason to think otherwise, and hope the President will reconsider."

"But Reverend, are you saying that the most recent tape does nothing to change your position?"

"I know nothing of tapes, only the Word," Gleeful said, pompously.

"What does it say that one of the President's most ardent supporters is a man headed to prison for tax fraud?"

"Only that the sinful have conspired against the righteous. Nothing more or less."

Jurgovich was growing impatient and he tried to intercede. His partner gestured for the police to clear the reporter away.

"Mr. Gleeful won't be taking any more questions," the IRS man said, sticking a hand in the photographer's camera.

Gleeful stared serenely past the fracas before him, ignoring as the cops swarmed around the reporter and cameraman, as the IRS agents tried to talk their way through. None of this nonsense mattered, he thought. If there is justice in the world, God would see him through and allow him to continue His work.

I am Reverend Gleeful; I cannot be defeated.

He didn't even notice the man with shaggy hair dressed in an ill-fitting dress shirt, stepping out from behind a pillar. Though he approached him from the front, he didn't see him raise a long-barreled Colt Python and aim at his head. He wasn't alive to see the cops riddle his assassin with a dozen bullets from multiple angles, as his IRS escort watched in confusion and terror.

His last moment of consciousness, before the bullet destroyed his brain and ended his life, was spent thinking about how lucky America was to have him. Even if they got rid of Richard Nixon, he was here to stay. His victory was only a matter of time.

Forgive. Love. Unite.

* * *

There were still a few dozen people in the Capitol that evening watching the President's speech, some congressmen, some aides, some reporters who were on hand, mostly, to record their reactions. Oliver Pemberton joined a group of congressional leaders watching impassively on a television screen. Most seemed relieved or angry, even the Republicans. He waited until Nixon formally announced his resignation to walk out, struggling to maintain his dignity and composure.

All this work for nothing, he thought, raging in his head. We came so close - so close to saving the President, and more to the point, so close to bringing about the Day of Reckoning. And all that was left was this petty, squalid show that made America look like a banana republic. It might as well have ended the week before.

He hadn't spent long in General Haig's custody. The Chief of Staff had cut a deal with the Congressman, exchanging immunity for any information about remaining conspirators. He was the one who clued Haig on to Gleeful's plan to return to the United States; he didn't knowingly betray him, but soon inferred that this amounted to a death sentence. He spent the next few days in a daze, wondering what, if anything, he and the Church's remnants could salvage from the debacle.

The previous day, John Rhodes had asked him to join him, Hugh Scott and Barry Goldwater for their fateful trip up to the White House. All three men were as partisan as anyone on the Hill, but also understood political realities perfectly well. Pemberton, however, refused. Despite the impeachment votes and the latest tapes, despite this sign that the President, despite the failure to affect Reverend Gleeful's will...he still believed. And if everyone else would reject it, he would reject them.

The last person to see Pemberton alive was the Capitol policeman, Rick Gomez, who chatted briefly and amiably with the Congressman about his family. Pemberton waited until the policeman left, walking to another part of the office complex, then locked himself in the door.

He took out his Luger, which he hadn't touched since the fight with Ariel Schuyler and Rick Anderson and their cohorts. It had a single round left in the clip. He looked around again at the pictures adorning his wall, at his family, at the image of Reverend Gleeful, at the fallen President who'd dragged so many down with him.

But when he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, the last thing he thought about was his son.


	30. Chapter 30

**July 24th, 2018**

 **Gravity Falls, OR**

It was a rainy day in Gravity Falls, which was just fine with everyone after the adventure they'd just had. Dipper and Mabel were even more attentive to Grunkle Stan than usual; he was annoyed until they explained what had happened.

"Huh...so you kids had to travel back in time and save the world again? Well, that sounds about right. Travel anywhere interesting?"

"Actually, yeah," Mabel said. "July 1974..."

Stan's eyebrows arched. "Really."

"It's kind of a long story," Dipper said. "But we, uh, met some people you probably knew..."

"Yeah?"

"Well, I worked for the White House and Mabel was a Congresswoman..."

They were worried that this would drive Stan into conniptions. Instead, he seemed genuinely curious and fascinated by their experiences...though mostly the juicy details about politics rather than the specifics of their mission.

"So Sandman was as big of a jerk as I thought, huh?" Stan laughed. "Not surprising. He met my dad a couple times, and anyone my dad liked had to be kind of a jackass."

"Well, except the very last time I met him," Mabel admitted. "He was almost...nice."

"Almost nice is the best you'll get with those kind of jerks," Stan sighed. "I'm glad you got to throw his bullshit back in his face, at least."

"Yeah, but Barbara Jordan did it better."

"Wow, you got to meet _her_? That's something." Stan seemed surprised. "I remember when she died about twenty years ago, I almost felt upset. Almost, I don't cry over politicians." He sighed. "So few decent people go into politics..." He stared out the window, watching the rain.

"And you, kid," he said to Dipper. "Did you get to meet Tricky Dick?"

"No, he wasn't in the White House. But, uh, I met Al Haig," Dipper sputtered.

"Ugggh, **him** ," Stan groaned. "That bastard dined out on Watergate longer than just about anyone. He was Secretary of State under Reagan and tried to seize power when Reagan got shot. Then he had the gall to run for President himself."

"That sounds about right," Dipper muttered.

"I guess we changed the history books," Mabel enthused. "But changed them so that they'd be **better**! And that's the best kind of change."

"Heh heh, I guess so," Stan said. "But enough about ancient history. They're having an all-day marathon of _Ducktective_ , and I've already got out some pretzels and Chipackers. Probably more than I can eat. Anyone wanna help me dig in?"

"Marathon! Marathon!" Dipper and Mabel chanted as they marched into the living room.

Stan chuckled, glad that he knew such great kids, a little envious even of their adventure. He knew that he couldn't have restrained himself from decking anyone he met in Congress or the White House had he gone back.

Being innocent is a good thing, Stan supposed...sometimes. You might have hope for the future. You might think things work out okay. You might think people can be reasoned with, and that life isn't a complete waste.

He heard Dipper and Mabel arguing about who got to sit on the recliner and which one on the floor.

Well, no reason they need to learn that so young, Stan thought to himself. And at the rate they're going, they might even prove me wrong one day.

* * *

"Father, we need to talk," Gideon announced.

"What about, Gideon?" Bud said, smiling blankly at the television. "Oh, it's that dumb flashback episode again! Them and the clip shows always ruin a perfectly good marathon..."

"I just spoke with a time travelin' fella named Blendin Blandin," Gideon said. "He says that you've been up to somethin' bad. Somethin'...magical."

Bud didn't visibly react.

"Says you sent some kinda demon or avatar or whatever back in time to mess with the past. Apparently y'all ended the world in 1974, or at least the world as we know it."

Bud continued watching television.

"Father, you heard me, right?"

Bud sipped his drink.

"Is this true?"

Bud sighed, still showing his vacant expression.

"Gideon, if the world ended forty years ago, we wouldn't be here right now, would we?"

"But Blendin said..."

"Gideon, I realized something over the past day or two. I thought the world was hopeless and beyond repair. And, I dunno, maybe it is. So I did a desperate, stupid thing that could have messed everything up. And I'm sorry, and I feel really awful about it."

Bud stood up from the sofa and gestured for Gideon to follow him. "I wanna show you something."

And Gideon, curious, followed him into an old study that he had never seen before. There was a portrait of Bud with his parents hanging on the wall above a desk, along with some books, mainly religious texts and a few history books. Gideon thought he spotted a book of Magick as well.

"I dunno if I ever told you about your grandfather," Bud said. "Started out life as just another Southern boy from Florida with no dreams or ambitions greater than anyone else. Went to Korea and watched his platoon get shot to pieces by the Communists; somehow he managed to survive. His battalion commander thought they needed a hero and gave him a Silver Star and some other decorations. And I think that went to his head. Or maybe something else happened.

"He got back from Korea, went home, and he was a changed man. He started attending church more regularly, started reading the Bible, started talking about God a lot. At first it seemed a natural response to the war and all that he'd encountered. And no Southern boy will ever get in trouble with his folks or friends by reading the Bible.

"But he didn't stop there. He became a pastor in the Baptist church, became one of those...I dunno what you call 'em now, circuit preachers I think, traveling around the Southeast preaching about the coming apocalypse and the showdown with Communism. Sometimes he did good things, taking in the homeless, feeding people in need. Heck, once he even gave a speech in Tuscaloosa denouncing Governor Wallace for beating up the colored folks! That took guts, and I would have been proud to have been there.

"Mostly though, he made it about himself. Made it about getting rich, made it about getting power. And so he started hanging around politicians more and more, started donating money to anyone who'd help him out. Started soft pedaling the part of Christianity that's about helping people and started focusing on the part that makes Christians, especially Christians like him, above everyone else. Started treating his wife - my mother - like a piece of furniture, started slapping her around and cheating on her, yet because he was a minister he felt it was alright. Then he was expelled from the Baptist Church for stealing money from one of his superiors.

"Then he decided, one day, that he wasn't just a Man of God, that he basically **was** God. Just after I was born, he started his own sect called The Church of Revelations, which treated him as their messiah. It was a small little group, never numbered more than a few thousand, but it had followers all over the country. Said that the world was fast rushing towards a Day of Reckoning, and that everyone needed to pay for the world's sins, that destroying the world and starting anew was the only way forward.

"Then, a few years later, he got indicted for tax fraud or something like that. My mama never let me know the details. He tried hiding out in South America, then came back to this country and was assassinated in August 1974. I woulda been about six years old at the time."

Gideon's mouth dropped open, sympathizing with his dad. Reliving this past was clearly causing him immense pain.

"It was hard," Bud continued. "My mom remarried someone a bit more lax about his religion, but who didn't treat her much better. So she raised me by herself for a few years, then died in the mid-'80s. I was still pretty young, but luckily I had an uncle who took me and showed me the tricks of car salesmanship and so, things kinda went from there. Until I met your mom and decided to move out to Oregon and away from all that mess.

"I tried forgetting my dad, but I couldn't. He never hit me, never treated me like anything but a loving son, but I remember the fights and arguments he had with my mother, and I never forgave him for it. But the more things started going bad over the past few years, the more I started thinking...maybe he made more sense than I realized."

Bud hung his head in shame, unable to continue, leaving his admission hanging in the air.

"Father," Gideon said, patting his dad's shoulder. "Father, if I can say somethin' here for a moment...I've done rash and stupid things for rash and stupid reasons. I know that there's always a temptation to fix things with Magick or God or whatever. There isn't a day that doesn't go by that I don't regret ever meeting Bill Cipher or thinking he might help us instead of destroying everything. There isn't a day I think about the hell I put you and Mother through back when I was a child. And I feel terrible about it, even if I don't always show it.

"But you never begrudged me for it. You helped me become a normal kid and helped me make friends and realize that despite everything...there could be hope. Maybe things aren't perfect, never will be, but we can make them better. Just because your dad was an awful man doesn't mean you need to be."

"It's easy for you," Bud said, his voice more resentful than angry. "You're still a kid. I'm old and ugly and set in my ways - it's hard to change, at least to change in a good way. If I were a good person, I wouldn't have done this thing."

"Well...Daddy," Gideon said, dropping his formality for a moment. "You were given a second chance. Whether it's by God, or whatever power there is in the Universe, you _didn't_ destroy the world. You had a moment of weakness and everything worked out in spite of it. If I can change, I'm sure you can. And now that I'm a little older, I'll be happy to help you. And I'm sure Mama will as well."

Bud felt tears welling up in his eyes, but he managed to restrain himself from crying. Instead he gave Gideon a warm, crushing embrace.

"I love you, son," Bud said.

"I love you too," Gideon said. "Now come on, that _Ducktective_ ain't just gonna watch itself!"

"I'll be right out," Bud promised. "Just wanna take care of something first."

Gideon lingered for a moment, suspicious, then walked off to the living room.

Bud took the photo of his dad off the wall. He took the book of spells off the shelf. Smiling at his son's words, he threw them into a trash bin and set them on fire.

He felt so much better just having been able to talk about his problems, everything that Weirdmageddon and its aftermath had dredged up, all the dark memories and ingrained fears from a childhood lost instead of lived. He wondered if it had been that simple all along.

* * *

Around 6:00 pm, Wendy showed up at the Shack with a DVD and a bag of popcorn. She'd spent most of the day just laying around her apartment, relaxing as best she could, enjoying the chance to be alone with her thoughts and not have to worry about saving the world or blowing things up or anything like that. As the day wore on, however, she started feeling an urge to spend time with her favorite dork. But she didn't want to stop by empty-handed, so she swung by the mall quick before stopping over.

"Hey dude," she greeted Dipper. "Found a killer-looking movie in the bargain bin today and thought, hey, I know somebody who might like this."

" _Attack of the 60 Foot Ostriches_ ," Dipper read. "Sounds...um, stupid."

"Yep," Wendy chuckled. "So are we on for it, or not?"

"Depends," Dipper said. "John Saxon isn't in it, is he?"

"Nope. It stars the doctor from _Star Trek_ , Vic Morrow and Joi Lansing, though."

"I'm in," Dipper said.

"Sweet. Maybe we can order pizza or something if we get hungry later," Wendy suggested.

"Grunkle Stan was planning on ordering Mexican takeout from Hermanos Brothers," Dipper said. "He's looking at the menus online right now."

"Oh, cool! I haven't eaten there in ages. How's Stan doing, by the way?"

"Fine. I mean, he kinda grilled us for awhile on the whole Watergate thing, but he's glad we're okay, and he's even more glad that **he's** okay. We spent most of the day watching TV with him. It was...great to just slow down for awhile and not have to worry about anything."

"I hear ya," Wendy agreed. "D'ya think Mabel will wanna join us?"

"I dunno," Dipper said. "She's been doing research upstairs for the past hour. Trying to figure out what happened to Ariel Schuyler and the rest of the people we impersonated."

"Sounds more like a job for Charlie," Wendy teased.

"I think he's bringing out that side of her," Dipper admitted. "Which is cool, so long as she stops razzing us about it."

"Okay, so enough talk! Let's get the movie started."

"Dipper, terrible news!" Stan cried, walking into the room. "They _don't_ have fajitas available for takeout! You okay with burritos, or..."

He noticed their visitor. "Oh, hey Wendy."

"Stan, what's up?" she asked.

"You kids gonna have a movie night, I'm guessing?" Stan asked, looking downcast. "Well, I guess I can go hide in the basement while you kids have fun."

"Hey, you can join us," Dipper said. He then looked Wendy, afraid that she might have other plans.

"Yeah, no problem," Wendy assured him. "I mean, it's too early for us to be, you know, anyway..."

"Ugh. Don't put images in my head, Wendy, or you'll change my mind. Listen, we're getting Mexican for dinner. You wanna order something?"

"Uh, I assume they have tacos?"

"Number six meal - three hard tacos with Spanish rice and refried beans. $3.99."

"You have that memorized?"

"No, I looked it up a minute ago. That sound good?"

"Works for me." She fished around in her pocket. "Umm, I don't have any cash, so maybe I could pay you back?"

"You never have cash, Corduroy," Stan growled. "This one's on me."

"You sure?" Wendy asked sarcastically. "I mean, I don't wanna put you out four whole dollars..."

"You save the world, I can spring for something cheap," Stan said. "Dipper, you okay with burritos?"

"Why not? Get the steak tips, I never like their ground beef."

"Wimp," Wendy chided.

"That's an extra sixty cents," Stan said, "but okay. And I think Mabel said she wanted a cheese quesadilla. And I'll get a big order of a nachos too. I'll put in the order and go pick 'em up in a little bit."

"Thanks, Grunkle Stan," Dipper said, watching him walk of the room.

"Same old Stan," Wendy said.

"Dunno what we'd do without him," Dipper responded.

* * *

Mabel hadn't found much on Dipper or Wendy's people. Apparently, Charlotte Hurt married Chandler Monahan and the two of them became writers and teachers in Illinois, their past in the past, if not forgiven or forgotten (Mabel found many articles, op eds and angry internet commenters complaining that reformer terrorists were teaching children instead of rotting in jail). Rick Anderson remained in the Republican Party for many years, and was still working as a political consultant in 2018. There was practically nothing about Roger Sheffield, who left the Church and disappeared without a trace from history.

She managed to find plenty of articles on Ariel Schuyler. A lot of them focused on Watergate, describing her speech as a "rare breath of optimism in a grave and staid debate on the role of government." Charlie, reading one of his Watergate books, found an author accusing Mabel of "high-minded frivolity" and insisted on throwing the book away, until Mabel told him there was nothing wrong with being frivolous. She was just glad that she'd made a mark on history, one way or the other!

Ariel had served in Congress until 1983, done a lot for local infrastructure and women's rights, then become a New York State Judge before retiring and becoming a legal commenter. Mabel was delighted to find a picture of Ariel with Liz Holtzman, a third Congresswoman, and President Carter in 1977, meeting in the Oval Office to discuss women's issues. She felt a swell of pride remembering her last conversation with Liz, knowing that she played a small part in helping that come about.

And the bridge and town center she'd paid for? Ariel Schuyler Bridge and Ariel Schuyler Industrial Park.

One thing nagged her, though. She couldn't find any mention of Jasmine Crawford, and naturally assumed the worst. There were a few fleeting mentions of her in articles about diplomatic receptions and other things in Washington. Nothing past 1986, when she returned to New Zealand and became a writer on current affairs. Then...nothing.

Then Mabel found another article which answered her question. Dated in late 2015, it showed Ariel Schuyler in her marriage to...Jasminder Amin, an attorney from Syracuse, New York. The article mentioned that they'd been together for almost twenty years, and that they were both so happy that they could finally be married in the United States...

That made Mabel upset. She _knew_ that awkward night must have ruined everything, and she felt extremely guilty...Until she read on, and found another passage.

"'When I first came to Washington in 1973, I started dating a lady diplomat,' Schuyler recalls. 'It was hard - we both dated men in public, tried our best to keep the relationship under wraps. We managed it until 1981, when she went back home and I met someone else.'"

And Mabel sighed in relief and happiness. After a moment absorbing this, she typed Charlie a quick email with a link to the article. Then she queued up "The Schuyler Sisters" on her laptop and started singing and dancing around the attic in celebration.

* * *

Charlie smiled as he read the email. He, too, had a discovery to share with Mabel:

"Find enclosed photographs of: 1) Three awesome ladies who, long before a woman president was even a dream, nevertheless persisted; 2) The most awkward couple in Washington, DC circa 1974 (barring Dick and Pat Nixon)."

The first, of course, was a full color photograph of Mabel (or Ariel Schuyler) sticking her tongue out playfully between a confused-looking Liz Holtzman and an indulgent Barbara Jordan. The second was a candid shot of Ariel Schuyler, New York Congresswoman, looking like a badass as she strutted through the Capitol lobby, and Roger Sheffield, alias the Apostle Simon, following after her, visibly stumbling over his shoes.

There was a nicer, more formal picture of them together, too, but Charlie liked this one better. As soon as he sent his email, he printed out a copy and tacked it up on his wall.

Whatever happened between him and Mabel, whether they were together forever or broke up at the end of the summer, they had this. What other couple in the world could say the same?

 **THE END**

 _Author's note: Will post a theoretically brief afterword later tonight!_


	31. Afterword

_Dipper and Wendy's Doomsday Defense_ is, in its way, a deeply personal story. I'd been toying with and outlining it long before finishing _The Arrogance of Power_. In fact, it broadly resembles an original novel that I started writing long before I started watching _Gravity Falls_. Maybe writing this will push me to finally finish it? In the meantime, I hope you won't mind some explanation of how this story developed.

Richard Nixon and Watergate have fascinated me since reading _All the President's Men_ in middle school. That interest intensified in college, when a course on postwar history and a thesis seminar on '60s politics combined to form the semipro historian you see before you. I've probably read enough books on Nixon to fill a library at this point! So something like this story was inevitable, not least for its applicability to current politics.

Last fall, I wrote an article about Nixon's die-hard supporters which offered the immediate inspiration for this story. It's an underreported side of Watergate that particularly interests me. What inspired Baruch Korff, who spent his life defending the Jewish people from the Holocaust through the birth of Israel and lobbying in Washington, to hitch himself to Nixon? Why would Charles Sandman, who personally despised Nixon, destroy his political career defending the indefensible? In contrast, how difficult was it for moderate Republicans to impeach a president belonging to their own party?

These weren't the principal questions of this story, of course. But they at least offered something to ponder between action scenes, and an entry point for observing Watergate from various perspectives. The difficulty remained in fitting _Gravity Falls_ characters into the scenario, though fortunately Blendin Blandin offered an obvious out via time travel.

Initially I planned to set this story in October 1969, using the National Moratorium protests against Vietnam (and Operation Duck Hook, Nixon's plan to unleash atomic weapons in Vietnam) as the hinge point. The police officer introduced in the opening chapter was supposed to play a major role, but I couldn't easily fit him into the final narrative. The Gleefuls weren't in my original plans, though Dipper's White House role and Wendy's terrorist friends were. Saito/Yamato also had a much bigger part.

I also wanted only Dipper and Wendy to go back, hence the title; credit fereality for convincing me to bring Mabel and Charlie along, too (I had a lot more fun writing Mabel's speeches than I expected!). Problem was that I struggled fitting all four characters into the above scenario. I also wanted to avoid as many obvious '60s stereotypes (hippies, drug use, black radicals, rock musicians, etc.) as possible. Fortunately, the second choice became obvious: Watergate offers a much larger cast of characters, historical and otherwise, to play with.

My favorite Watergate book remains J. Anthony Lukas's _Nightmare: The Underside of the Nixon Years_ (1975), though Fred Emery's _Watergate_ (1994) and Rick Perlstein's _The Invisible Bridge_ (2014) were also useful. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein's _The Final Days_ (1975) was my major touchstone for the siege atmosphere, paranoia and unreality of Washington just before Nixon's resignation. The premise draws on real fears, thankfully unfounded, of Nixon using the military to retain power that many (including Nixon's closest aides and cabinet members) entertained in the summer of 1974.

I used the American Archive of Public Broadcasting's video files to reconstruct the impeachment hearings, along with transcripts available through the Mary Farrell Foundation. For those without the patience to slog through those, check out the old PBS documentary "Summer of Judgment: The Impeachment Hearings" on YouTube. Some specific anecdotes and character sketches come from Elizabeth Drew's _Washington Journal: The Events of 1973-1974_ (1975) and Howard Fields' _High Crimes and Misdemeanors: The Inside Story of the Rodino Committee_ (1978).

Unlike my previous story, many characters are real historical figures: all the Congresspeople except Ariel Schuyler and Oliver Pemberton existed; as did Rabbi Korff, most of Nixon's advisers (Haig, Kissinger, Schlesinger, Ken Clawson, Bruce Herschensohn) and of course Nixon himself. You may judge whether their depictions are fair or accurate.

Neither the PLV nor the Gleefuls are real groups, though they draw inspiration from ones that existed, especially the Moonies (who were among Nixon's most vocal supporters) and the Weathermen. There are plentiful nods to literary and film influences like Don DeLillo, Allen Drury, George V. Higgins, _The Conversation_ , the _Godfather_ movies, etc. which perceptive readers will likely recognize. The title is an homage to an episode of _Millennium_ entitled "Jose Chung's Doomsday Defense."

Apologies to Lin-Manuel Miranda and _Hamilton_ fans for so frequently quoting it. Listening to the soundtrack helped me power through some of the story's rougher patches (along with the more period-appropriate music mentioned in the text). Besides, it seems like something Mabel would adore, even if she wasn't especially into the history; I could definitely see her using it as a gateway into understanding politics and government.

Thanks as always to all my readers, especially William Easley (thanks again for the cover art!) and fereality, for following along and offering reviews, ideas and encouragement. You guys are awesome!

For everyone else, I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I loved writing it. I may write a quick one or two shot as a Christmas treat, but probably won't start another big story until after the holidays. See you around!


End file.
